


like a secret (or a sin)

by Sandrene09



Category: Smosh
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Infidelity, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:41:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10939077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrene09/pseuds/Sandrene09
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder.There’s Ian, there’s Anthony, and then there’s Ian and Anthony. While doing the press tour for Ghostmates in New York, Ian and Anthony struggle to figure out where one label ends and another begins, finding out that sometimes, the lines aren’t as clear-cut as they seem.This is their (love) story, told in hotel keycards and plane tickets from LAX to JFK.





	like a secret (or a sin)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written anything in a while, so I’m trying to shake off the writer’s block. Hello again, fandom! The title comes from “Only You” by Matthew Perryman Jones.  
> I know there’s a million other fics about cheating out there. I thought I would try my hand at it. I’m not trying to romanticize cheating, and I apologize if it seems like I did.

 

Contrary to popular belief, distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. It’s quite the opposite, actually.

Ghostmates is coming out, and while Anthony cannot be more excited for the premiere, he wouldn’t give this up for the _world_. This is what he has been looking forward to. Doing a press tour means isolation, means leaving the west coast for the east, means being alone together (or maybe being together alone?).

Of course they’re not _truly_ alone (they never are). There will always be someone watching—a young fan, the press, someone’s camera, _the world_ —but here, they’re not as closely watched. It’s one of the things Anthony likes about New York; everyone’s too busy with themselves to watch other people. Here, he and Ian could be anonymous.

(Is there really such a thing as being anonymous? There’s IP addresses and browser histories and website cookies and—)

They’re in LAX and Anthony can feel his palms sweating, can feel the beating of his heart. He’s almost there— _they’re_ almost there—and this, this is what he lives for. The painful anticipation and the sweet release. Poetic, that.

The gate opens, and Anthony and Ian stand up at the same time. They fall in line, quiet (for once). Anthony hands his boarding pass and watches through unseeing eyes as the ticket attendant smiles at him and hands him his ticket back. He thinks he nods, though he’s not quite sure.

(He’s not sure of anything, these days.)

He walks forward, careful not to let anything show on his face. He’s so close. He just needs to make it to his seat and wait, that’s all he needs to do. All he needs to do is wait.

He puts his carry-on luggage in the overhead bin and sits beside Ian, quiet as he makes sure he has his seatbelt on.

There’s something funny about safety, he thinks as he watches people walk down the narrow aisle to their seats. Safety’s subjective. Anthony’s the kind of person to strap himself to a seat, but at the same time, he’s the kind of person to risk compromising a relationship for a week of escape.

(Alone together or together alone?)

When the plane finally, _finally_ , takes off, Anthony looks around and slowly puts his hand on the middle armrest.

Ian holds his hand through turbulence.

(When the cat’s away, the mice will play—)

****

****

****

There’s falling, and then there’s flying, and then there’s this: travel in the form of turbulence, love in the form of betrayal.

(Mosaic art is still art, regardless of the broken glass pieces that comprise it.)

He and Ian get (separate) rooms down the (same) hallway. It’s easier this way, he reasons as he opens his door and turns the lights on. This way, they can meet up before breakfast more quickly.

(This way, there’s less distance.)

He doesn’t know whose room they’ll end up using more, but he has an idea. He has an idea, because even though this is only their second press tour in New York, they’ve done this thing before, and Anthony _knows_ , it’s him who will break, him who will seek out Ian, him who will leave the (safety of his) room for Ian’s.

Anthony knows better than to think he will ever know better.

He lies on top of (undisturbed) sheets and looks at the ceiling for a little while.

He should get something to eat, maybe. He should (probably) text Miel to let her know they’re here (safe). There’s a lot of things he should do.

There’s a lot of things he shouldn’t do.

He waits.

He waits until he eventually has to get up and find a nearby restaurant that has vegan options.

He orders his food.

He vlogs.

He stays in his room the entire night.

A part of him knows why he’s doing this. He’s doing this because a part of him needs the lie, and to make a convincing lie, one has to have some sort of proof.

This is his proof: pristine sheets and lying (alone) in the darkness.

He wonders what Ian is doing at this very moment. Is he waiting for Anthony to come? Is he enjoying his night?

(Is he even in his room at all?)

It’s his birthday. Anthony would go and see him, but he knows himself too well to pretend that he has the kind of self-restraint needed for him to still end up in this room at the end of the night.

Thinking about Ian has become more consuming since they landed in New York. Miel is a star, but Ian is a black hole, heavy and all-consuming and—

(unexplored?)

(No.)

Ian is an adventure Anthony can only have when he’s away from home.

Home is such a funny concept, Anthony thinks. Miel isn’t home, despite how much he wishes she was. Los Angeles is a close second, but with the constant traffic and the ever-changing landscape, it doesn’t feel right the way Sacramento feels.

Ian is: home and an adventure away from home, trust and betrayal, an alternate reality Anthony chooses not to think about when he’s not in a hotel he can forget about (but won’t).

Ian is: temptation incarnate.

Anthony is: weak.

(Maybe he’s not as weak as he thinks. He’s waiting, isn’t he?)

He’ll call Miel tomorrow, right before he eats breakfast.

Maybe.

(Miel is: too good for him.)

****

****

****

“How is it so far?”

Anthony looks out the window. Gray overcast skies hang over the skyscrapers, looking like it can’t quite decide if it wants to rain. Below, people are walking, locals and tourists alike, minding their own business as they head to their own destinations.

“Cold,” he says, turning away from the window. “Colder than I thought it would be.”

“Maybe I should visit you,” Miel says, off-handed, and Anthony feels his heart sink like a stone in his chest. “LA’s hot as balls.”

Anthony laughs, small and just that little bit forced. “It seems like an overcorrection to fly here just because it’s hot there.”

“You’re right,” she says, and Anthony feels relief wash over him like cool water. “It’s just, you know, I miss you, you big goof.”

_I miss you_ is probably the right thing to say here, but the truth is, Anthony doesn’t miss her.

Anthony wouldn’t give this up for the world.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he says instead, because there are too many lies already, despite the fact that he hasn’t done them yet. He doesn’t want to add to his (growing) list of sins, if he can help it.

(Anthony isn’t particularly religious, so he doesn’t know: does it make a difference the number of sins if he’s going to hell anyway?)

“And I’ll see you then. Until then, though…text me.”

“Of course,” Anthony lies.

Miel ends the call and Anthony turns around, looking at his (packed) suitcase.

He’s not staying here tonight, he knows. He has (re)packed his things like he has (re)packed his morals, giving up basic human decency for a chance to relive a fantasy he and Ian had hit the pause button on for a year.

This, he thinks as he takes his suitcase and leaves the room, is his new start. His second (third, fourth, et cetera) chance at an alternate reality. This is forgetting and remembering, is one step forward and two steps back, is breaking something for the sole purpose of making something new out of it.

This, he thinks as he knocks on Ian’s door, is a new him from the old.

Ian opens the door, takes one look at Anthony and his suitcase, and wordlessly steps to the side.

(Ian is a new partner from an old friend.)

Anthony puts his suitcase near the left side of the bed.

Ian closes the door and approaches Anthony slowly, letting him call the shots, the pace, the everything.

(When they had talked about stopping this back then, Ian had still let him call the shots. He’s considerate like that, Anthony supposes, though Anthony can’t help but wish that Ian had fought just a little bit harder for his case, for the desire to be in a relationship without all the pretense and the hiding.)

(Anthony wishes he hadn’t fought the idea off as hard as he had.)

The curtains are closed. Reruns of something called _Deadly Wives_ play on the television screen.

Ian takes one step forward, and Anthony can’t take the waiting anymore.

Anthony walks toward him with single-minded purpose and kisses him, lips hungry for something he hasn’t tasted in a year. His hands find their way to Ian’s waist, gripping just this side of being too tight, creasing the dark sweater he has over a long-sleeved button-up shirt.

Every time he and Ian take a break from this, whatever this is, Anthony’s always afraid it would be the last. Now’s not an exception to the rule.

All his fears are chased away by Ian kissing him back. He feels Ian’s hands make their way up his sides as Ian’s tongue darts out and seeks permission from Anthony’s closed lips. Anthony opens his mouth, and it feels a little bit like offering a part of himself for the taking.

Ian’s arms rest on Anthony’s shoulders, his hands reaching up to tangle his fingers in Anthony’s curls, and Anthony feels goosebumps erupt on his skin.

Slowly, they part. Anthony doesn’t back away much, eager to stay where he is.

“You went to the gym?” Ian asks, soft.

Anthony keeps his eyes closed. He can feel Ian’s breath on his face, intimate. “Yeah,” he answers, equally soft, unwilling to let the loud sounds of the outside intrude on this private moment.

He’s been waiting for this for a year.

“Breakfast?” Ian offers, not bothering to pull away, and Anthony wants to say no, wants to shake his head and convince Ian to stay here in their little space for just a little longer.

He doesn’t want to go outside just yet.

“Yeah,” he eventually says, opening his eyes to find Ian’s concerned gaze on him.

“You okay?”

It’s that concerned tone, that soft, welcome voice that rolls like honey in Anthony’s mind, still the same after all these years.

“Yeah.”

Ian furrows his eyebrows. “We can get room service instead, you know.”

Anthony shakes his head. “Nah,” he says.

It’s time to face the music, anyway. They can’t stay here forever no matter how much Anthony may want them to.

“Okay,” Ian says, as understanding as he has always been. “Okay.”

****

****

****

It’s CBS first, then it’s NBC.

In between interviews, he and Ian find time to walk to the New York Public Library and basically enjoy what little time they have with each other.

“I forgot it was your birthday last night,” Anthony lies with a half-laugh, holding up his phone with one hand as he looks over his shoulder to see Ian’s reaction.

“Yeah, how dare you,” Ian says, eyebrows furrowed but unoffended.

“I said ‘happy birthday’ in the morning, and then I was like ‘oh yeah, we’ll just hang out tomorrow night’, and then we get back to the hotel and I just _stayed_ in the hotel—dude. I’m sorry.”

“You’re gonna have to make it up to me,” Ian says, and Anthony feels his cheeks warm.

Anthony looks down, not bothering to mask his smile. “I’m gonna make it up to you tonight.”

“You don’t want to lose your best friend card,” Ian says in his unflappable tone of voice, and it’s a warning, a reminder.

“I know!” Anthony says, and it’s not just an answer to what has been said, it’s also an answer to what is staying unsaid. “I’m so sorry, man.”

This, this is what he does best. He puts friendly (manly) titles to remind himself of the situation. He says _man_ and _dude_ so effortlessly; it has become second-nature to do so. It feels like shedding skin every time he calls Ian nicknames that aren’t necessarily romantic, but at the same time, it feels like putting on armor, feels like chainmail made out of words that cannot be misconstrued to mean something else, something deeper.

(Eventually, the heavy armor will make his thinning skin bleed, but he doesn’t want to think about that. Not yet.)

They go to a place called Blue Dog Café for brunch. Ian orders pancakes and a hot chocolate. Anthony orders a salad. They sit together and hold hands under the table when they can.

From there, it’s interview after interview after interview. They don’t really get time to themselves beyond sitting alone together (or together alone) in dressing rooms, green rooms, and building lobbies, and even then, there’s always someone or something watching.

When they’re waiting, they mostly focus on their phones to pass the time. Ian watches Youtube. Anthony makes his move on the Scrabble game he has going on with Mari. They might not be alone, but Anthony still enjoys it.

There’s something to be said about just being with Ian in a comfortable silence. He feels safe, welcome—he feels at home.

(Safe, welcome, home—funny words, all of them. Maybe that’s what Ian is, in the grand scheme of things, a concept explainable by phenomena that contradict themselves.)

“What is it?” Ian finally asks, looking up from his cracked phone screen and meeting Anthony’s eyes.

“Nothing,” Anthony says, a small smile playing on his lips.

****

****

****

The restaurant is low-lit. It would be the absolute perfect place to just have dinner with Ian without worrying about snoops or eavesdroppers, if only they had managed to be alone. Sadly, Anthony hadn’t quite managed to get the two of them away from their press tour manager and assistants, so it’s not just the two of them like Anthony would have liked.

Ian leaves the table to go to the bathroom.

Anthony (barely) stays where he is.

“Excuse me, miss?” Anthony says, ignoring the questioning looks of his co-workers as he calls the attention of the nearest waitress.

The woman—Angie, her nametag says—walks toward him with a smile. “How may I help you?”

Anthony checks to make sure Ian isn’t on his way back to the table yet. “So, the guy who was sitting here? It’s his birthday. Do you guys do anything special, or…?”

Their press tour manager laughs, finally getting what Anthony’s trying to do.

Angie nods, smiling. “Of course! A few of us will sing, and we have a little bit of cake for the birthday celebrant.”

“Perfect,” Anthony says. “He’s in the bathroom right now, but maybe later? When we’re done eating dinner? That way he doesn’t expect it. His name’s Ian, by the way.”

“Of course!” Angie says, enthusiastic.

It’s not long before Ian’s back from the bathroom. Angie takes their orders and they lose themselves in easy conversation.

When all their orders are on the table, they all take a few pictures before going back to the conversations they paused. Somewhere to his right, he can hear their manager complaining about traffic.

“Hey,” Anthony says, voice dropping to a low whisper as he looks at Ian across the table. “Happy birthday.”

Ian smiles, and it’s not the one that he always has ready for the cameras. It’s the one that’s reserved just for them, a private kind of smile that only Anthony has the honor of seeing. It’s soft and genuine, a barely-there twist of the lips that promises something more.

(Anthony wonders if Pam gets to see that smile too. He knows it shouldn’t matter, knows that he has given up the right to be jealous the moment he told Ian that they could not make this into a real relationship the way they both want to, but he can’t help it. He has always been bad at sharing.)

“Don’t think this gets you out of making it up to me,” Ian says, teasing. His voice is equally soft, soothing. It’s that smirk now, still familiar and welcome. Ian’s lips are curled up at the edges and his eyes hold a knowing look to them, genuine even when teasing.

Anthony takes a deep breath and meets Ian’s eyes. “Of course not,” he says, voice low and serious. “I’m still making it up to you, don’t worry.”

And this, this is what Anthony lives for: the heated look Ian shoots him, the anticipation bubbling under his skin, the knowledge that even for just a few days, he gets to have this (have him).

Pam and Miel are faraway thoughts. For now, it is Ian and it is Anthony, and it is them alone.

Anthony subtly calls Angie’s attention.

“So I know I still owe you for missing your actual birthday,” Anthony begins when he sees Angie walk back to the kitchen, presumably to grab Ian’s small piece of cake.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees their manager grin.

“It’s okay, dude,” Ian says, contrary to what he and Anthony were just talking about in hushed tones. Besides the roles they play in front of the camera for their Youtube channels, this is another role Ian is familiar enough with to play in his sleep. Ian can pretend with the best of them, Anthony knows. He’s seen him pretend to be content with what they have for years.

It’s selfish, Anthony knows. _He’s_ selfish. He has never been a risk-taker the way Ian just naturally is—he knows there’s uncertainty there, something that he isn’t entirely sure he’s ready to face. A relationship is steady and built to last. A relationship is living in a reality he has helped create.

This is different.

This is exciting and new and not falling into (old) patterns. This is something Anthony can fully enjoy without worrying about fucking things up and completely losing the person who means the most to him. This is Anthony and Ian, and despite this not really being a formal relationship, they make it work.

Because that’s who they are. They make things work even without meaning to. Or maybe that’s just Ian, somehow always calm even in the face of a storm, the one constant Anthony can rely on. Even in the mess that is whatever the hell this is, Ian is the serenity within it, the peace that Anthony just wants to bask in.

Maybe that’s why he had said no before. Relationships are messy, sometimes even messier than this, and Anthony’s not going to risk losing that peace just because of a title. He doesn’t even care that they don’t call each other boyfriends.

…Right?

(You can’t have your cake and eat it too.)

“No,” Anthony replies, watching as Angie walks out the kitchen doors with a couple of coworkers behind her. He takes out his phone. “Listen, I told you I would make it up to you, so—”

“—happy birthday to you,” they all begin to sing, “happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Ian. Happy birthday to you!”

Angie puts the cake in front of Ian, and Ian looks at Anthony with that look, the one that’s just a little exasperated and a little amused. He’s smiling though, so Anthony laughs when Ian flips him off.

He can think about these things later, Anthony thinks as he watches his coworkers greet Ian and engage him in conversation. There’s time for these things later. For now, Anthony gets to celebrate Ian’s birthday with him.

(What does it say about Anthony that he’s willing to let the important things wait?)

One by one, they all bow out and head back to the hotel until it’s just Ian and Anthony left. Their manager reminds them of their early day tomorrow before heading out, shooting a smile at them as she grabs her coat and heads out.

Anthony is familiar with this. In the end, it’s always just going to be him and Ian. No one else stays, and Anthony thinks he’s okay with that.

He would rather have no one than someone else.

And that—that’s the truth, isn’t it? Even beyond this, what little time they have with each other, Anthony would still prefer no one over someone else if Ian were out of the picture, would rather have nothing in his hands than a broken imitation of what he could have.

(No one looks for their reflection in broken glass pieces clumsily pieced back together.)

 

 

 

“What do you say? Was that the—the best, uh, birthday of your life?”

They’re walking down the streets of New York. It’s probably dangerous to have his phone out at this time of day, but Anthony doesn’t particularly care. He wants to have this.

“One day-late belated birthday?” Anthony continues, looking at Ian and barely suppressing a smile as he sees Ian waddling in his coat in the cold New York night.

“Yeah, it was definitely the best belated birthday ever,” Ian says in a such a matter-of-fact tone that Anthony can’t help but chuckle.

“But we sang Happy Birthday to you and embarrassed you.” Anthony looks at Ian. “I think that’s—that’s all you need for a good birthday, right?”

It’s a question laced with uncertainty. He’s far too aware of the fact that he had let Ian’s birthday go by without doing anything with him, bound by the fear that he won’t be able to hold himself back at the end of the night. This—this is way less than what Ian deserves. Ian deserves everything.

(Anthony doesn’t deserve Ian.)

“Actually, I don’t know if that’s ever—I’ve—if I’ve ever gotten that before,” Ian says, matter-of-factly.

Anthony raises his head, eyebrows rising. “Are you serious? No one’s ever _sang—_ ”

“—yeah, cause,” Ian starts to say, shaking his head, “I’ve always made people the victim of that, but I don’t think I’ve ever been the victim of it.”

“Oh my God,” Anthony says, his mind running a mile a minute, because _surely_ Ian has gotten this before, right? It’s not a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Everyone experiences this sort of thing at least once before turning 18.

Anthony thinks back to all the other birthdays they celebrated (together):

Ian’s 14th, when they had a sleepover at Ian’s house, determined to play video games throughout the entire night and only making it until one in the morning before they passed out on each other’s shoulders in the living room.

Anthony’s 16th, when he and Ian celebrated the fact that Anthony could _finally_ get a driver’s license by driving down the freeway and stopping at an IHOP at two in the morning.

Ian’s 18th, when Anthony was invited to go on a camping trip with Ian’s family, discovering that there might just be something more to these thoughts Anthony’s been having about Ian lately and realizing that these thoughts won’t ever really go away.

Anthony’s 20th, when Ian took him to a secluded part of the beach at three in the morning and kissed him sweetly, hesitantly, and with all the desire to let Anthony know that all these things he’s been feeling are not only real, but reciprocated.

Ian’s 20th, when Anthony realizes that they can’t possibly have a relationship and have it end well for the both of them while they juggle this new business and this new fame.

Memories upon memories crowd Anthony’s mind. There’s just no way that no one’s ever done that to Ian before.

There’s just no way that _Anthony’s_ never done that to Ian before.

(And yet.)

“Uh,” Anthony says, suddenly speechless. “Uh, what do you want to do with the rest of your night?”

“Um—um, let’s see,” Ian says, thinking. “I got Pokemon.”

And Anthony—Anthony laughs. It’s such an _Ian_ answer that there really isn’t anything else to do _but_ laugh. Ian has a tendency to move the spotlight when it’s (rightfully) on him, has a tendency to answer serious questions with deliberately underwhelming answers, has a tendency to make Anthony fall deeper in love with him despite resistance.

Ian is push and pull, is time and space, is attraction and repellency. Ian is all the basic laws of physics and all the paradoxes in the world combined, and Anthony—

Anthony is the experimental lab rat that can’t quite decide where to go, is the uncertainty present in every room, is the friction that slows down movement.

(Friction is a force that both resists movement and allows it.)

 

 

 

“You think any of these books are worth reading?”

“Uh…all of them. Let’s read all of them.”

Anthony laughs and brings his phone in front of him to capture Ian’s expression.

There’s something about Ian’s smile, Anthony thinks, that makes it impossible to resist him. It’s the kind of thing that grows on you, the kind of thing that’s difficult to just forget. It invites you to share the moment, to smile, to forget anything else exists _but_ him.

It’s that very smile that Anthony wants to capture with his phone. He fails, of course, what with the low lighting and the dark backdrop, but he continues on doing it anyway. A crappy iPhone video beats no video at all.

“Let’s read all of them tonight,” Ian says, looking at Anthony. “Let’s just, like—let’s just go crazy.”

Anthony smiles and brings his hand forward as he gestures toward Ian. “That’s my birthday gift to you,” he says, barely stopping himself from laughing outright, “I’ll read the books to you before bed.”

“Oh thanks,” Ian jokes, his voice high-pitched.

It’s not long before they order their respective drinks. It’s a moderately classy place, the kind where you don’t just down six bottles of Budweiser without getting a few judgmental looks at best and a stern talking to at worst, and everything feels just that little bit more intimate. This is vastly different from their respective 21st birthdays, when they celebrated being able to legally drink by hitting as many bars as they can, seedy or otherwise.

They’re older now, Anthony thinks, and as he takes his drink from the waiter with a smile, he also thinks they’re more mature. Gone are the days when they can just down shots of whatever they could afford without any thought of the consequences. Now, they’re more aware of themselves, to an extent.

Anthony looks at the small circular table separating him from Ian, looks at the lone candle on the tabletop, and thinks, _isn’t there a saying about how with age comes wisdom?_

He looks up from the candle to meet Ian’s eyes, and remembers the next part of the saying.

He knows what’s going to happen tonight. He’s going to be utterly powerless to stop it, because what’s the point of waiting longer when he’s _here_ now? When there’s nothing else to stop him?

Ian knows it too. His eyes are dark in the low lighting of the restaurant, knowing and expectant. This—this is movement from point A to point B. That’s all this is.

Right?

It’s not as simple as that though, because Anthony finds that he can’t quite meet Ian’s eyes, because Anthony looks away as his mind runs through all the different scenarios that can happen, or could have happened, if only he had allowed himself the privilege of doing so.

One more year. One more year until they both turn 30, until they both have to start figuring out what they really want. Anthony thinks he knows what it is that he wants—he just doesn’t know if he’s ready to make the choice yet.

And isn’t that the thing? You’re supposed to be sure of the important things when you’re 30, right? This year—their last year before the hit the big 30—is supposed to be a time for fresh beginnings and endings. They’re supposed to have figured things out by now.

Anthony should have figured things out by now.

( _With age comes wisdom_ , the saying goes, _but sometimes age comes alone_.)

Anthony clears his throat, suddenly finding his mouth dry. “One year until you’re 30,” he starts to say, “what do you think?”

Ian shrugs. “We’re getting older,” he says, unaware that he’s just stated what Anthony thought about earlier. “Kinda weird, huh? We didn’t really think the Youtube thing would happen, and yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” Anthony agrees. He takes a sip of whatever the hell it is he ordered.

Here they are. Men on the cusp of being 30, unsure of the future and what it is that they both really want.

Maybe that’s just Anthony generalizing. Ian has always been the more forward-thinking of them, he thinks. He’s sure that Ian knows what he wants. It’s not fair for him to say _we_ , when really, what he means is _I_.

( _I’m_ not sure about what _I_ want, _I’m_ lost, _I_ want you, _I_ love you—)

Anyway.

“So,” Anthony begins, raising his glass to take a sip from his drink, “any birthday wishes?”

Ian shakes his head, a small smile curling the edges of his lips upward. “I don’t know, world peace?”

Anthony laughs, his worries swept away by just being in Ian’s presence. “Sounds generic.”

“It does,” Ian agrees, nodding his head. “I don’t know. I mean, I want a good year. I want to stay healthy.” He looks down at the table, his fingers still curled around the thin stem of the glass. “I want to be happy,” he murmurs, voice low and soft, and Anthony _knows_ what Ian’s talking about, knows that this is Ian’s way of requesting Anthony to figure things out and to figure things out fast.

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat. His hand grips his glass tighter as he forces himself to keep his eyes on Ian.

“Hey,” he finally says when it doesn’t seem like Ian will be looking up soon, “look at me. Please.”

Ian looks up, hesitant, and here, in the low-lighting of a restaurant in New York, thousands of miles away from where Anthony first met Ian, Ian looks impossibly young.

Anthony never meant to do this to him. He never meant to make Ian feel this way, to make him emotionally strained, to keep him pulled taut like a string between an actual romantic relationship with a wonderful woman and whatever the hell it is that he has with Anthony.

Anthony never meant to hurt him.

(Anthony very carefully doesn’t think about how the road to hell is paved with good intentions.)

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, because he can at least begin with that. This is something he knows he owes Ian.

Ian shakes his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, adamant.

“You’re wrong. I do.” Anthony sighs and lets one hand creep up to rub the back of his neck. “I have everything to be sorry for.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian asks, curious.

Anthony takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

Ian looks back down.

Anthony continues.

“I’m sorry that you’re stuck in the middle without a choice. I’m sorry for ending things between us and then starting this—this _clusterfuck_. I’m sorry that I haven’t made a decision yet.”

( _I’m sorry I can’t be enough_ , he doesn’t say.)

“Do you really want to talk about this here?” Ian asks, and even now, he still wants Anthony’s opinion. He’s still considerate, still understanding, still so frustratingly _him_ that Anthony finds he almost doesn’t know what to do.

This isn’t the kind of thing they should be talking about (in public). Hell, this isn’t even the kind of thing they should be talking about on Ian’s birthday. There’s something about New York though, something about the kind of freedom it allows Anthony to feel whenever he’s here, something about the kind of recklessness it fans into flame inside Anthony, something about being anonymous (again) in a sea of unknown faces.

New York makes Anthony want to be something else.

There’s still that part of him, however, that knows better. It may not be a part of him that Anthony listens to often, but it’s still there, and it still gives him unsolicited advice.

And that—that’s enough.

“I—you’re right.” Anthony licks his dry lips. “I’ll get the check.”

 

 

 

The walk back to the hotel is uneventful. Anthony is too lost in his thoughts to start a conversation, and Ian is too understanding to start one _for_ him.

An uncomfortable silence masked as a comfortable one. A masquerade consisting of the two of them against the rest of the world.

By silent agreement, they both head to Ian’s room.

Ian closes the door behind him with a soft click. Anthony finds that he doesn’t really know what to do, so he walks to the bed and sits down with a soft sigh.

Ian sits beside him, close, yet not close enough. He’s silent, content to let Anthony think over what he wants to say, and Anthony finds that he’s so unbelievably thankful that there can’t possibly be any words for what he feels.

This (amazing) man. Ian has given him so much without even thinking about what he has been giving away, and Anthony has been taking everything that Ian’s been offering, (always) without regard for what Ian’s been sacrificing.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. He’s thought about this plenty of times—

(unbidden, an image of him lying awake at night with Miel lying next to him appears in his head)

—and yet none of those times has accomplished what this single night has. Never before had he been struck so immensely by this guilt, a stabbing pain in his chest that intensifies with every breath he takes.

This is what Anthony does to people he loves: he asks them to offer him their hearts while ignoring the blood dripping from their palms.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, because that, at least, will never change. “I know I’ve been saying it a lot, but you—I just.” Anthony sighs and lets his head fall forward. He puts his arms on top of his thighs, clasping his hands as he tries to think of words that will be able to adequately express everything that he feels.

A pause. And then—

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Anthony would like to believe that. He really would. It would be so easy to forget that this entire thing is just a fantasy, to forget that this entire thing is not only hurting his girlfriend Miel who is waiting for him in Los Angeles, but also Ian, his best friend and maybe, just maybe, something other than that, a relationship Anthony doesn’t quite dare naming yet.

It would be so easy to think that he doesn’t have any fault in this.

(Except.)

Except there’s a reason why he’s so careful to make sure he takes vlogs inside his own room, there’s a reason why his heart thuds louder and quicker every single time he thinks about the possibility of Miel actually flying here and visiting him, there’s a reason why every thought of going back to Los Angeles in a few days or so makes his chest hurt and his every thought stutter to a stop.

There’s always going to be a reason.

(Ian will always be the reason.)

“You’re wrong,” he says, his voice quiet. He doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to turn away from what Ian is offering—a fantasy to be lived for a few days without guilt or worthless sacrifice—but there has always been a time and place for everything, and just like how now is the time and New York is the place for this little make-believe world of theirs to be indulged in, now is the time and this is the place for Anthony to finally be held accountable for his actions.

Anthony clears his throat. “I just. I know I’ve been sending mixed signals lately, and no, before you say anything, let me just say that even though we both know what my decision is, I never really outright said no.”

Ian shakes his head. “I don’t, I mean—okay? Even if you didn’t outright say no, it was pretty clear what your decision was,” he says, his voice soft and defeated, entirely without malice the way his voice should be. Ian sighs. “Let’s just—I don’t know. Let’s not bring that up, okay? As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t have much to do with anything anymore.”

“No,” Anthony says, vehement as he pushes himself off the bed and stands in front of Ian, unable to sit still as he tries to make sense of the million thoughts running through his head. “You’re wrong. This has everything to do with everything. And you know what? You’re right. I didn’t have to tell you ‘no’ for you to realize what my decision was.” Anthony’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “After all, what could be a stronger ‘no’ than not showing up where I was supposed to a long time ago?”

There’s a time and place for everything, Anthony thinks, and his time and place had been in early 2015, at his and Ian’s house in Sacramento.

(Anthony remembers this: Ian asking him if he wants to give this— _them_ —a try)

“What do you want me to say?” Ian asks, voice soft. He sounds defeated and confused, and Anthony never meant to make him feel this way.

Then again, there’s always that saying about good intentions.

(Anthony remembers this: not saying no.)

Anthony sighs and kneels down in front of Ian, needing Ian to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Ian shakes his head, unwilling to accept the apology he so clearly deserves. “What do you want me to do? What do you expect me to do, Anthony? Because I think at this point we both know there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

And isn’t that the (godawful) truth?

The thing about wanting is this: Wanting is abstract, a feeling that isn’t necessarily positive in its effects. Anthony goes after what he wants the way thieves go after things that shine, and he knows it’s high time to understand that not all that glitters is gold, but Ian has always been more than that. Ian is worth more than his weight in gold.

(Anthony remembers this: an agreement to end relationships they both knew they weren’t happy in to give what they had— _what they still have_ —a chance.)

“Punish me,” Anthony says, pleading. “Forgive me. Fuck, I don’t know.”

“Jesus, Anthony,” Ian swears under his breath and stands up, walking as far away from Anthony as he can without leaving the room. “You don’t even know what you want.” He raises a hand to run his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You _still_ don’t know what you want.”

Anthony bows his head, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

Ian tightens his jaw and drops his hand to his side. “What the fuck are you sorry for?” he asks, voice rising, disturbing the illusion of calm the room previously had. “Are you sorry for doing this in the first place? You agreed, Anthony!”

Anthony stands up, still not quite able to meet Ian’s eyes.

(Anthony remembers this: not being sure about the future of his relationship with Ian, but being so damn sure of his unhappiness with his fiancée that he breaks up with her.)

“Don’t—don’t be sorry for this,” Ian pleads, though he still can’t quite approach Anthony. “Apologize for anything, just. Not this. Anything but this.”

Anthony walks towards Ian slowly, approaching him the way wildlife rescue would approach a wounded lion. “It’s not that, Ian.”

Ian freezes.

(Anthony remembers this: an agreement to meet at their house in Sacramento at a specific date and time to prove their dedication to trying to make their relationship work.)

_It’s not that, Ian_.

Anthony could smack himself upside the head.

“I didn’t mean that.”

Closing his eyes, Ian takes a deep breath. Anthony can practically see Ian internalize the tension the way he internalizes everything else, emotions included. Anthony sees it in the way Ian hands curl up into fists at his sides before he forcibly uncurls them, fingers extending outward. He sees it in the way Ian’s eyes—normally so expressive—devoid of any kind of emotion. He sees it in the way Ian’s look is deathly calm, the eye in the storm.

Ian nods. “Yeah, no, I know.” He takes a deep breath. “What _did_ you mean?”

_He doesn’t know_ , Anthony thinks as he watches Ian stand as still as a statue. Gone is the fidgeting Ian always seems to be doing, the minute movements that endear him not just to Anthony but to every single one of their fans, the little quirks, the little twitches, even aborted movements wherein he starts to move before stopping himself. He doesn’t know, because there’s lying, and then there’s _lying_ , and no matter the fact that it in itself is a bad deed, the intentions change everything, despite what people may say.

All this time, Ian’s been lying to save Anthony from everyone else. Anthony can’t begrudge him finally lying to save himself.

A step forward.

Another one.

Another one.

Anthony keeps on going, watching for signs that Ian truly does not want him near him at all, before coming to a stop just in front of him.

They’re older now. This close, he can see the evidence of this on Ian’s face—the smile lines starting to form at the corners of his eyes, the freckles on his cheeks that have only darkened with time, the small crease on his forehead that tells Anthony that Ian has absolutely no idea what Anthony is about to do.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, voice only slightly trembling as he tells Ian what he should have told him a long time ago, “for not being there when I should have been.”

(Anthony remembers this: not going.)

Ian releases his breath in a shaky exhale, his eyes slipping closed. Anthony watches as the fight melts off Ian’s shoulders, the tension that has been keeping his entire body standing leaving him in one exhale.

Slowly, Anthony leans in.

Ian opens his eyes.

With barely two inches between them, Anthony looks into Ian’s eyes and whispers, pleading, “please let me kiss you.”

Ian looks at him, his expression inquisitive, as if truly doesn’t know just how much he affects Anthony by just being in his life, as if he doesn’t know how much gravity his every word and every action has in Anthony’s world, as if he’s not aware that there are moments when Anthony feels like he is the sole reason Anthony exists.

Ian nods, a small minute thing that Anthony would not have noticed if he weren’t just two inches away from Ian.

The press of their lips is soft at first, a hesitant movement that is both too much and not enough. Ian’s lips are chapped, an effect of both the cold, biting wind of New York and the way Ian worries his bottom lip whenever he’s deep in thought.

The movement of their lips together is a study in contrast and contradiction—smooth lips against rough ones, rough lips smoothing out a kiss into something gentler, something slower, something Anthony has no patience for. A meeting of two lost souls, maybe, if Anthony were the kind of person to write poetry in the midst of immense feeling, if Anthony were the kind of person to have that much faith in something as abstract as the idea of romance.

Love—what a funny word. There is no direct way to quantify it, and yet here Anthony is, his lips parting against Ian’s as his hands uncurl from his sides to slowly make their way up to cradle Ian’s head. He has never been surer of anything in his life than the fact that this, what he feels for Ian—it’s something else.

Truth be told, the word love cannot quite exactly encompass everything that Anthony feels about Ian, the word love isn’t exactly enough, but he will settle for it. It’s the word that comes closest to it, he thinks.

(Not betrayal, he thinks. Never betrayal.)

_Know this_ , he thinks as hard as he can, as if by doing so he will be able to let Ian know everything he’s been feeling without saying them out loud, _there will never be anyone like you_.

Ian’s lips part under his in a soft, barely-there moan, and Anthony smiles, the edges of his lips curling up as he thinks about the privilege this man has given him, allowing him to share in his successes and his failures, allowing him to kiss him as thoroughly as he would like, even if only for this one moment.

Anthony’s right hand makes its way around Ian’s neck to cup the back of his neck, fingers in Ian’s hair. Vaguely, he feels Ian put his hands on Anthony’s hips, not quite pulling him forward, but not pushing him away either. He’s just…holding him there, as if afraid that Anthony will disappear the moment he lets go.

Anthony pulls away and presses his forehead against Ian’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice soft in the empty room, “I’m so, so sorry.”

In the distance, a siren rings, but Anthony doesn’t pay any attention to it. He and Ian are in their own world now, far away from the city that never sleeps and the various noises that characterize it. Here, all that Anthony can hear are their breaths, slightly labored and interspersed with gasps and moans. Here, all that there is is the two of them. Nothing else matters.

Anthony watches as Ian’s eyes slip closed even as he instinctively leans forward. Here, they share warm breaths and something else—something more—that Anthony isn’t ready to vocally acknowledge yet.

Pressing a kiss to Ian’s left cheek, Anthony whispers, “I’m sorry.” He follows that with another kiss, bending lower to press a kiss on that spot under Ian’s ear, then another, this time at the point where Ian’s neck meets his shoulder. All the while, he feels Ian’s hands clutch him tighter, nails biting into his skin.

“I’ve forgiven you,” Ian says in a breathy whisper as Anthony proceeds to suck a hickey into a spot just an inch or two from the junction between Ian’s neck and shoulder, making sure, even at this point in time, that whatever mark he leaves, Ian will be able to hide.

Anthony knows. “I know,” he says simply, once he’s done marking Ian and his lips have escaped the almost painful clutches of the collar of Ian’s button-up that he still hasn’t removed yet. “I know, but that won’t stop me from saying it.”

Truth is, he doesn’t think he deserves forgiveness.

“I know,” Anthony begins to say, pausing in between words in favor of pressing chaste kisses up Ian’s neck until he reaches his lips, “that you don’t blame me.” His hands slide down from the back of Ian’s head to the bottom of his dark sweater.

Ian’s lips fall open the moment Anthony’s lips press against his once more. Slowly, his hands slide to Anthony’s lower back, encompassing Anthony in a hug that isn’t quite enough. There, his fingers make a home for themselves as his hands grip tight, undoubtedly wrinkling Anthony’s sweater beyond repair.

Pulling away from the kiss as much as he can without banging his head against the wall, Ian catches Anthony’s bottom lip in between his teeth, fanning the sparks in Anthony’s belly into a full-blown fire. Anthony watches as Ian’s eyes open, the blue replaced by a thin dark ring surrounding his dilated pupils.

They’re both out of breath now, sharing the same warm air the way they seem to share everything else with each other—without complete and utter regard.

Anthony tightens his grip on Ian’s sweater and slowly pulls it up, giving Ian enough time to stop him if he wants to. The material is soft against his hands, and as he raises it up, up, up until it isn’t on Ian’s person anymore, he thinks about what they are about to do.

This is what they are now: lovers that can only exist in a specific space and a specific time. They may love each other, but only under the cover of darkness, like thieves in the night.

Anthony tucks his head in the junction of Ian’s neck and shoulders, mouthing the spot that he knows drives Ian wild. Ian tilts his head even further, giving Anthony more space, and Anthony smiles against Ian’s skin as he hears his low, rough groan, as he feels the vibration of his vocal cords just a few inches below his skin.

What was it like, before this? Surely there is a _before_ , in the way that there is a _now_ , in the way that there is an _after_ that Anthony is doing his best not to think about. Try as he might, though, he can’t quite seem to remember never doing this, can’t quite seem to recall moments when he didn’t miss the feeling of Ian’s skin against his, of Ian’s lips against his, Ian’s beard scratchy against his cheeks and chin.

“If you know that I don’t blame you,” Ian says, voice shaking as one of Anthony’s hands snakes up to bury itself in his hair, “then why the apologies?” Anthony’s lips move to his throat, his mouth closing over Ian’s Adam’s apple, and he breaks off with a moan.

Anthony pulls away from Ian’s neck and leans in. “Because,” he says, his lips gently touching Ian’s with every word he forms, “you deserve them.”

( _I don’t deserve you_ , he doesn’t say, because surely, Ian knows that.)

Moaning, Ian untangles his fingers from Anthony’s sweater and reaches down, eager to remove both the sweater and the shirt underneath it. Anthony helps him, unable to wait any longer for the press of skin against skin, and when Ian’s hands drag against his torso as he lifts up Anthony’s shirt, Anthony feels twin lines of fire burning through his skin.

(Is this what Pam feels, when Ian’s with her?)

Dropping Anthony’s shirt and sweater to the floor, Ian’s hands find their way to the back of Anthony’s head and brings him down ever so slightly, his lips meeting Anthony’s without difficulty, the both of them used to this dance of theirs. Anthony feels the warmth blazing in his belly go further down, a raging inferno that can no longer be ignored.

Shaking hands reach down to unbutton Ian’s shirt. Anthony is more than just distracted, so it takes him a few tries before he finally gets the first one undone, then the second, then the third. At this point, Ian has abandoned Anthony’s lips in favor of his neck, tongue darting out to lick a stripe just below Anthony’s ear. He gives a shaky exhale, and Anthony moans, closing his eyes and tilting his head to the side just a little bit more, feeling goosebumps rise on his skin.

“Jesus,” Anthony breathes out, his voice shaky as he tries to make sense of the slew of sensations.

Ian smiles against his skin. “Blasphemy,” he murmurs, before pressing kisses down Anthony’s neck, towards his left shoulder.

Ignoring the electricity running up and down his spine, Anthony opens his eyes and continues unbuttoning Ian’s shirt. “You know I’m not— _ah_ ,” he breaks off when Ian bites down just hard enough to leave a mark on his shoulder, “religious.”

Ian hums in agreement against his skin. “Good,” he says, before pulling back and batting Anthony’s hands away as he unbuttons his own shirt quickly, unwilling to wait any longer.

“Good?” Anthony asks as he pushes Ian’s shirt off his shoulders.

“Yeah,” Ian says, hands already unbuckling Anthony’s belt. “Some people would say that what we’re doing is a sinful act.”

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat and leans in, catching Ian’s bottom lip with his teeth before kissing him, tongue slipping in and exploring the nooks and crannies Anthony has been trying his best to forget. He feels Ian’s hands pause in their mission to unbutton his jeans, and he clutches him closer, heaving chests pressing together.

After a few moments, he pulls back, feeling his lungs burning as he struggles to take in air. “I’ve already accepted that I’m going to hell,” he says in a low voice, meeting Ian’s eyes.

Ian raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“In every religion,” Anthony confirms, and Ian laughs, surprised.

There’s something about Ian’s laugh, Anthony thinks, that makes it stand out against the rest, that makes Anthony want to seek it out in a sea of people, that makes Anthony want to hear it for the rest of his life.

(Is this what Pam hears every day?)

From there on, everything is a blur. Ian succeeds in unbuttoning and unzipping Anthony’s jeans and Anthony helps him out by toeing off his shoes before slipping out of his pants. It’s not long before Anthony undoes Ian’s pants as well, before they’re both moving towards Ian’s bed without any care for the clothes littering the floor.

“What do you want?” Anthony asks, falling back onto the bed with a small bounce. The bed squeaks under him.

Ian takes his time watching Anthony, eager to have the image burned in his mind. Anthony’s skin looks like burnished bronze under the dim lighting of the hotel room, and the way he’s positioned on the bed makes him look ethereal, something too beautiful to look upon, let alone touch. The shadows make him look untouchable, and his black Calvin Klein boxer-briefs leave nothing to the imagination, making him look like art, personified.

“You,” Ian finally says after a few moments, tongue darting out unconsciously to lick his lips.

Mouth dry, Anthony watches as Ian bends down and starts crawling up the bed until he can fully lie against Anthony and kiss his lips without difficulty. He returns the kiss eagerly, moans slipping out as he does so.

“You’re amazing,” Ian breathes out when he pulls away for more air. One hand comes up to affectionately bury itself in Anthony’s curls, and Anthony, upon feeling this, smiles.

“So are you,” Anthony says, because he needs Ian to know.

Nothing else will be like this. Nothing will compare.

Ian grins at him. “Cheesy.”

Anthony rolls his eyes. “You like it.”

Ian huffs out a laugh. “You’re right,” he says, even as he shakes his head fondly. And then he leans down and whispers it right against Anthony’s ear, his lips moving against the soft, sensitive skin, and Anthony shudders, his cock jumping against the tight, restraining fabric of his boxer-briefs.

“Fuck,” Anthony murmurs, eyes slipping closed. He places his hands on Ian’s shoulders, fingers holding on tight. He might end up leaving marks, but that’s okay. He doesn’t really care. They have a few more days. They’re fine.

A low chuckle, and then Ian says, “that’s the idea.”

Anthony opens his eyes and glares at Ian, though it is entirely without heat. He feels too much love for this man to ever feel genuinely angry with him, he thinks. “You’re too coherent,” he says, voice low.

“Make me incoherent, then,” Ian says with that gleam in his eyes, the one that tells Anthony that Ian’s pushing him because he has a plan.

(Is this what Ian is like with Pam?)

Using his hands, he pulls Ian down towards him and kisses him thoroughly, tasting alcohol and chocolate when his tongue slips back in and entwines with Ian’s own. Without warning, he removes his right hand from Ian’s shoulder and brings it down, down, down, and cups Ian’s erection through his boxer-briefs.

Groaning, Ian pulls away from the kiss and tightens his hold on Anthony’s hair. Anthony swallows back a moan and continues rubbing Ian’s erection as much as he can in the awkward position he has his hand in. Ian bows down until his head is pressed against Anthony’s right shoulder, wordless moans slipping out his mouth as Anthony continues pressing his fingers against the outline of Ian’s cock.

“Incoherent yet?” Anthony asks, taking his hand away from Ian’s cock.

“Fuck you,” Ian mumbles against his skin.

Anthony chuckles. “That was kind of on the to-do list, yeah. You need to keep u— _oh_ ,” he says, breaking off into a moan when Ian presses down and moves up, effectively rubbing his clothed cock against Anthony’s, making Anthony’s cock jump and spurt pre-come.

Leaning up and placing his hands on either side of Anthony’s head, Ian starts to buck into him in earnest, the bed squeaking as it moves with him, the headboard just slightly tapping against the too-thin wall. Anthony lets out a whimper as Ian brings one hand down to cup his erection, Ian’s pale fingers in stark contrast against Anthony’s dark boxer-briefs, made even darker by the wet stain of pre-come. Ian thumbs the head of his cock just so, and Anthony’s hips buck up, eager to follow the sensation.

“Fuck, please,” Anthony chokes out between strokes. He’s not too sure of what he’s asking for, but he knows that he wants it, and he wants it _now_. Skating his hands down Ian’s chest, Anthony turns his attention to Ian’s boxer-briefs, fingers hooking into the elastic waistband and bringing it downward, making Ian shudder as he struggles—and fails—to keep himself from moaning when the elastic waistband rubs against his erection just so.

“Yeah, no, I got you,” Ian says, voice breathy. He slides his boxer-briefs down his legs with little assistance from Anthony, and then proceeds to tug down Anthony’s boxer-briefs as well, looking up and straight into Anthony’s eyes as he does so. “I got you.”

Ian sinks down slowly, and Anthony has to stop himself from thrusting against the tight, wet heat of Ian’s mouth and choking him. His eyes screwed shut, Anthony blindly reaches for Ian’s hair, needing something to hold onto as wave after wave of sensation assault him. Ian hums around his shaft, and Anthony bucks up, unable to stop himself, making Ian groan low in his throat and continuing the cycle of pleasure Anthony finds himself the willing prisoner of.

Needing to catch his breath, he grips Ian’s hair and just barely stops himself from coming when he feels the deep vibrations of Ian’s groan. “St—stop,” he says, breathy with exertion.

Almost immediately, Ian stops, lifting himself up and looking at Anthony, a silent question in his eyes.

“No, no,” Anthony says, seeing the worry in Ian’s eyes. “I was, uh, about to come.”

Ian smiles, then slowly lowers himself back down onto the bed, making his intentions clear. Anthony raises his torso a little bit to follow Ian’s movements, head tilted to see just what Ian has in store for him, but he quickly gives up on looking when he feels the first tentative lick of Ian’s tongue on the head of his cock, his upper torso falling back onto the bed and his head making a home for itself on the white pillow.

“Ah, ah, shit,” Anthony says, hips bucking up uncontrollably as he feels Ian’s tongue form figure eights on the head of his cock, his tongue paying particular attention to the slit in unpredictable intervals. He feels Ian’s hand close around his shaft, warm and tight, but not warm or tight enough. His hand stays there, present and undemanding, Ian seemingly content to hold him as he pays attention to the head.

“Shit, shit, shit, ah Ian, please,” Anthony begs, breaking off when Ian brings him into his mouth once more, sinking until his nose is pressed against the wiry hair on Anthony’s groin. Anthony feels the tentative touch of Ian’s fingers against his balls, feather-light as they skate against the taut skin.

The air is hot with anticipation. Anthony feels the edge, feels himself about to cross the barrier between tension and pleasure, and he grips Ian’s hair even tighter as his moans get louder, as his thighs shake harder from the onslaught of pleasure.

Ian pulls away just enough to talk, his lips moving against the tip of Anthony’s cock. “That’s it,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough, “come for me.” He presses against Anthony’s perineum, unhesitating, and Anthony feels himself come apart, the almost-unbearable heat in his groin leaving him in a blinding climax as he spurts white all over his chest.

Distantly, he can hear someone sobbing out a moan, and then—

Silence. Or at least, as much silence as there can be in the city that never sleeps.

“Jesus,” Anthony manages to say, voice hoarse. “C’mere, Ian, I wanna see you.”

Ian obliges, crawling up until he’s face to face with Anthony, darkened eyes meeting blissfully relaxed ones. There’s a smile on his face, the one that lets Anthony know that Ian is proud of what he’s done to him, the one that speaks of possessiveness, the one that Ian doesn’t often let other people see.

This is Ian’s talent. He takes Anthony apart and puts him back together, somehow making him feel more whole after being broken into pieces. He is an artist, and Anthony is both his muse and his art, and God, how humbling it is to be the sole recipient of that kind of focus—of that kind of drive—from a man like Ian.

Though his limbs still feel like jelly, Anthony turns onto his side so he’s fully facing Ian. For a few moments, he can do nothing but look at him, his entire being doing its best to commit everything that it can about this moment to memory. He looks at Ian’s eyes and memorizes the dark rims surrounding his dilated pupils, looks at Ian’s lips and lets the image of kiss-stained lips burn into his eyelids. He breathes in and lets himself enjoy the smell of this—of them—of sex and sweat and the tiniest scent all hotels seem to have. He lets his hand reach out and touch Ian’s hair, fingers running through the soft strands, and he commits to memory the feel of it against his skin.

Ian smiles, relaxed and uncaring of the sheer need he must still be feeling, and Anthony commits that to memory too.

He’s supposed to know better, at this point.

He’s stopped caring, he thinks.

He reaches down and grips Ian tight, enjoying the way Ian’s eyes slip closed as he groans. Anthony is careful to keep his eyes open for as long as he can, because this is something he doesn’t know when he’ll get to see again.

Anthony leans into Ian and kisses him, tongue seeking out the warm heat of Ian’s mouth. Ian unhesitatingly parts his lips and lets Anthony in.

A twist of the wrist, and Ian is falling apart in his arms, a low groan spilling from his lips as he unconsciously thrusts against Anthony’s hand, thick ropes of white coating Anthony’s thighs and hand.

Uncaring of the mess between them, Anthony hugs Ian tight as he waits for him to come down from his blissful high, Ian’s tremors calming instead of worrying.

For a few moments, they’re both content to silently bask in the afterglow. There is nothing quite like this, after all, and even the sirens outside and the distant sounds of a lively gathering can’t destroy the world that Ian and Anthony have created here, in (Ian’s) bed in his (own) hotel room. Anthony, for his part, is content to lie there as he waits for Ian to catch his breath, his own hand lightly rubbing Ian’s back up and down in an effort to soothe him.

There will never be anything like this.

(Ian is: irreplaceable.)

Eventually, Anthony pulls away and leaves the bed for the adjoining bathroom. He finds a small towel and wets it with warm water, cleaning up the mess on his stomach and thighs before rinsing the towel again and bringing it into the bedroom with him.

He meets Ian’s eyes as he gently wipes him down.

_Does she do this for you?_ Anthony doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t have the right to ask, because Ian will never answer him, because that way lies madness.

Dropping the towel on the floor, Anthony crawls into bed and lies (close) beside Ian. For a few moments, he can do nothing but lie there, still catching his breath as he looks at the plain white ceiling of Ian’s hotel room like it has all the answers to all the questions he’s ever had about the two of them.

This is their (love) story, told in hotel keycards and plane tickets from LAX to JFK.

Ian turns on his side and looks at Anthony, quiet even as he tries to catch his breath. Anthony looks up from where he’s settled snugly against Ian, silently lifting his torso up when Ian offers to put his arm around him.

Settling back down, Anthony turns on his side and looks at Ian once more, content to bask in the relative peace and quiet that surrounds them. Right here, it feels like they’re safe from anything else, feels like they’re far away from New York even as he hears sirens in the distance.

Anthony takes a few moments to observe Ian. This close, he can see the constellation of freckles on Ian’s face, can see the thick eyelashes resting against his cheeks as he closes his eyes, can see the fine hairs of his beard.

Anthony is never allowed to be this close, and so he settles in and proceeds to memorize as much of the moment as he can. This isn’t something he can have once they’re back in LA—Ian is an experience that Anthony won’t ever get enough of, but won’t be able to revisit.

“You know,” Ian says, voice low and hushed as he opens his eyes to look at Anthony, “you’re wrong.”

Anthony raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Ian takes a deep breath. “I may deserve to be apologized to,” he says, leaning forward until his nose is practically touching Anthony’s, “but you don’t deserve to constantly do the apologizing.” With careful fingers, he touches Anthony’s bottom lip before lifting his chin to direct his attention back to Ian. “I don’t blame you, and there’s a reason for that. Just…trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” Anthony says, because it was never a matter of not trusting Ian. It has always been more a matter of not trusting himself.

Ian smiles, a small upward curve at the corners of his lips. “Good.”

Anthony closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the peace and stillness of the moment. The sweat has mostly dried on his skin, making him feel colder than what is necessarily comfortable, and he burrows into Ian’s side further, chasing the warmth of his skin. He feels Ian’s arm tighten around him, and he sighs.

“I should go,” Anthony says, though he doesn’t move.

Ian hums, indicating that he heard him.

This is the way he responds. He never says no, because to do so would be to ask Anthony to do something Ian knows he’s not ready to do. He never agrees or says okay either, because Anthony knows it _isn’t_ okay.

(This is the way Ian responds: while between a rock and a hard place, Ian stops and lets Anthony decide if he wants to bash his head against the rock or against the hard place, accepting Anthony’s decision—whatever it may be—without question or comment.)

Anthony bites his lip.

(This is the way Anthony responds: while having Ian between a rock and a hard place, Anthony decides to bash his head against both surfaces.)

“I don’t want to go,” he admits.

These words won’t do anything. Anthony says them anyway.

( _Why?_ )

( _Because_.)

These words won’t do anything to help him, but he says them anyway, because this is the place for privacy, and this is the time for truthfulness. He is (desperately) in love with his best friend, and he doesn’t want to leave (his side).

He’s been so careful of what he’s been saying or doing lately that finally breathing out the words makes him feel relief.

He opens his eyes and looks at Ian, (un)surprised to see the pain in his own blue ones.

Anthony takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to Ian’s bare shoulder in apology, feeling the back of his eyes burn.

The words won’t help him, maybe, but they will hurt Ian.

Maybe he should have thought of that.

“So…stay,” Ian says, voice quiet.

(It is: a ~~question~~ ~~plea~~ statement.)

“I can’t.”

(It is: an ~~answer~~ ~~apology~~ assertion.)

Ian sighs. “I know.”

(It is: what it is.)

Anthony shivers as the cold air hits his skin. “I should leave.”

Ian takes a deep breath. “Yeah, you should.” He smiles a sad facsimile of a smile, lips curled up at the edges, but a wrong kind of curl somehow, like a part of a slinky that’s been bent out of shape.

Ian rolls away, and Anthony feels goosebumps erupt on his skin. Without Ian’s body heat, he starts to shiver more, and for a little bit, he actually thinks he can take it if it means that he’ll be able to stay here. Eventually, he remembers, and he sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed, already looking around for his own clothes.

It takes a little time for him to put his clothes on, but in the end, this is how it goes:

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says, watching Ian put a new pair of boxer-briefs on across the room.

Ian looks up and smiles at him, that same sad smile Anthony doesn’t like seeing on his face, and says, “I understand.”

When Anthony leaves, he closes the door softly behind him.

 

 

 

_Hey_ , Anthony types on his phone, _you up?_

Still feeling half-asleep, Anthony lets his eyes drift closed and his hand holding the phone fall back down on the bed. He feels sleep-warm as he tries to get even more comfortable under the blanket and comforter, and as he turns, he can feel himself drift off further even as he feels the sun’s rays on his skin.

Wait.

Sun rays?

Anthony’s eyes fly open, only to be met with the sight of an open window.

_Fuck_ , he texts.

Ian’s reply is quick. _Why? And yeah, I’m up._

Anthony forces himself to sit up, one hand coming up to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He’s careful to gather the comforter on his lap to cover the essentials—he’s not trying to give anyone a free show. He blinks at his phone, thinking simultaneously about what to reply and what to wear.

_I left my curtains open. And I’m naked under the covers._

_Sucks, man._

Anthony raises his eyebrows, a small smile forming on his face. _What, no offer to help?_

Ian’s answer is immediate. _Nah, you’re on your own._

Laughing, Anthony shakes his head. _Asshole._

_Thanks._

Sighing, Anthony clicks on the camera app and proceeds to take a short video for the vlog he’s forming in his head. When that’s done, he very gingerly shifts and puts his feet on the carpeted ground, careful to bring the blanket with him. A lot more awake now, he looks out the window to see if anyone’s looking into his room.

“Jesus,” he mutters, standing up and holding the blanket around his waist with one hand, making sure to cover not only his front, but also the back. He shuffles to the window and slowly shuts the curtains, blocking the light and immersing the room in darkness.

With the inside of his room completely blocked off to any onlookers outside, Anthony feels comfortable enough to walk back to the bed and place the comforter and blanket there. He then pads over, fully naked, to the bathroom, fingers absent-mindedly scratching his head as he tries to figure out if he should shave.

A shower and shave later, Anthony finds himself in front of the mirror with his phone. He feels silly doing this—it reminds him too much of Kalel back when she would vlog about her outfits and clothing hauls—but he does it anyway, telling himself that he needs material for his vlog. The next few days wouldn’t be included in the vlog, he thinks, because those will be just for him and Ian, and no one else, not even Pam or Miel.

When he’s finished vlogging, he nods to himself in the mirror and makes sure to grab his wallet and hotel card key. With a slight twist of the wrist, he opens the door, locking it behind him when he steps outside.

It takes him only a few moments to find himself in front of Ian’s door, rapping his knuckles against the door in a steady rhythm.

Ian opens the door, hair still a little wet even though he’s fully dressed, and Anthony finds himself overcome with the desire to go inside and never leave. He feels his heart thud heavily in his chest, feels his palms sweat with anxiety or excitement, he doesn’t quite know, and this…this isn’t normal. He isn’t supposed to feel like a teenage boy about to go with his boyfriend to prom. He and Ian are grown men, and grown men don’t feel like this, do they?

_Do they?_

Anthony has never felt like this with anyone else. Never did he once open the door to the sight of Miel and have his first thought be, _oh God, I’m in love with you_. Never did he once open the door to the sight of Miel and be bombarded with memories of when they first met.

And yet.

Ian opens the door and Anthony feels himself falling further in love, feels himself want to walk into his room and accept everything he’s been silently offering all these years. Ian opens the door, and Anthony is standing in the carpeted hallway, suddenly aware of all the different times this has happened before, a kind of déjà vu that hurts more than Anthony expected it to.

How many different times has this happened before? Anthony has lost count of all the times he stood in nondescript hallways in various hotels, waiting for Ian to open his own door and welcome Anthony in.

It would be so, so easy, he imagines. It would be so, so easy to just give in and walk inside, to just accept everything that Ian’s been silently offering all these years without thinking about the repercussions or consequences.

But that’s not exactly true, is it? He thinks about everything, always mindful of what might be seen. He knows every consequence and repercussion, knows every lie to say and every proof to fabricate, anything to save…what? His image? Himself? Ian?

Miel?

“Are you okay?”

( _no._ )

Anthony focuses back on Ian and smiles, the brittle edges of his smile showing more of what he actually feels than what he intended to show. “I’m fine.”

Ian gives him a knowing look, but doesn’t comment further. “Okay,” he says, accepting Anthony’s answer, before stepping outside and locking the door behind him, one hand still grasping his wallet and key. “So.” He looks at Anthony, worry present in the furrow of his eyebrows and in the narrowing of his eyes, and stops a few steps away from Anthony, looking like there’s nothing else he would want than to be allowed to touch him and console him (in public).

Anthony meets Ian’s worried look with a determined expression. Ian has always been a worrier—worried about his mom and dad and their failing health, worried about his sister and her relationships, worried about his nephew and his studies, worried about his friends and their lives, worried about Anthony and his—

—well.

The thing is that Ian has always been worried about the people he loves, and though it is an honor to be loved by him, sometimes Anthony wishes that he doesn’t worry as much. It makes him feel like he’s a goldfish in a fish tank, always watched and observed. And Ian has always been an observer.

“I’m fine,” Anthony repeats, this time with a steadier voice as he tries to convince Ian that he’s fine. It won’t work, of course, because at this point, Ian has spent more of his life knowing Anthony than not, but Anthony does it anyway. The point here is _not_ to convince Ian that Anthony’s _just_ fine; the point here is to convince Ian that Anthony’s fine enough to go through with their plans for the day, both the professional and the personal.

Ian still has that look on his face, unbelieving and worried at the same time, and Anthony finds himself wanting to hug him tight and place his head in that space where his nose will be in that junction between Ian’s neck and shoulder. He wants to breathe him in and fill every space inside of him with Ian until he doesn’t feel empty anymore.

He wants everything with this man. He wants a private lover and a public significant other, wants both the inside of the room and everything that lies outside of it.

“Okay,” Ian says, though he clearly doesn’t believe him. He shakes his head a little bit, as if to clear the thoughts from his head, before starting to walk down the hallway, slowing down until Anthony’s walking beside him. “So. Plans for the day?”

Anthony exhales in relief, grateful for the change in topic. “We have that interview with _Wired_ , the _Build Series_ ,” he says, counting off the interviews with his fingers, “and there’s that, uh, food thing?”

Ian raises his eyebrow, amused. “ _Bon apetit_?”

“Yeah, that one,” Anthony says as he stops in front of the elevator and presses the button with a downwards arrow. He watches the button light up in red light before turning back to Ian. “We have to go to Youtube Space too.”

“Oh yeah,” Ian says, prolonging the “yeah” in realization. “We’re doing breakfast first, right? I didn’t order room service.”

Anthony nods. “Yeah, sure. I didn’t order room service either. We’ll do lunch after we do _Bon Apetit_ and _Wired_. After the _Build Series_ interview and Youtube Space, we should be free.”

“Sounds good,” Ian says, nodding.

The elevator doors open with a quiet ding, and Ian and Anthony both step into the elevator in silence. The inside of the elevator is all stainless steel and chrome, the inside of the elevator doors showing their reflection as they close. Anthony watches Ian press the button for the ground floor and notices the fact that they’re alone here.

Anthony closes his eyes and feels himself slip into an old, worn fantasy the way another person would slip under a soft, hand-made quilt. The image of him just pushing Ian against the wall of the elevator and kissing him within an inch of his life splashes against the inside of his eyelids, and somewhere in the back of his head, he hears the sound of Ian’s moan, something hardwired into his brain that he’s not likely to forget.

The elevator dings, and Anthony’s eyes snap open, immediately seeking the floor number at the top of the doors.

Level three. Not ground.

Anthony moves to the corner of the elevator with Ian as an entire family walks into the elevator complete with an infant in a stroller and an elderly grandmother with a gummy smile and a foldable aluminum walker. A guy that Anthony assumes to be the dad turns to them with a friendly smile and a “sorry, folks.”

This crowded, no one’s paying attention to them. Anthony looks at the security camera in the other corner and realizes that because of the tall dad, he and Ian would be barely seen.

Here’s his chance, he thinks as he watches the mom scold her children for shouting in the elevator. With everything so crazy, here’s his little moment of solitude, a pocket of calm in a sea of activity.

Not allowing himself to hesitate, Anthony reaches for Ian’s hand and holds it, fingers finding the spaces between Ian’s own and squeezing.

Beside him, Ian inhales deeply before squeezing back, his hand warm and (un)surprisingly a little rough in some parts. That would be from constantly holding a pen, Anthony thinks as he looks at the number at the top of the elevator doors change. His hands are that way because of the fact that back when it was just the two of them handling Smosh, Ian did most of the writing, most of which he’d done by hand.

Ian used to write a lot on his hand back then too, Anthony recalls. Ian doesn’t have the best memory, so to avoid forgetting important memos, he would write in either blue or black ink on his left palm.

In front of them, the family doesn’t pay them any attention. The kids, thank God, don’t seem to know who they are.

Anthony lets himself revel in the experience of finally getting to hold Ian’s hand in a semi-public place. There’s something about it that’s different. Maybe it’s because it feels like an informal declaration, or maybe it’s because it feels like another step out the door of the space in Anthony’s head that’s labelled specifically just for him and Miel.

(Intimacy is such a funny thing.)

Anthony sighs when the elevator dings once more, ringing in the hollow space. The elevator doors open, and the family slowly exits.

Anthony lets go of Ian’s hand and walks out, refusing to let himself look back and see Ian’s reaction. He curls his hand into a fist before opening it wide once more, fingers splayed out as he feels the ghost of Ian’s touch, the memory of Ian’s fingers entwined with his own.

(It’s funny how simply holding Ian’s hand affects him in a way that’s so vastly different from making love with him in an anonymous room in a hotel thousands of miles away from where they live.)

Aren’t things supposed to be easier than this?

 

 

 

There’s a saying somewhere about how some things are supposed to fall apart first before they can fit back together.

Anthony’s not much of a love quotes kind of person, but sitting in a small French-Italian café with too much lighting and not enough space, he figures out what he’s been slowly putting together in his mind.

He shifts, and his knee bumps against Ian’s under the dark, wooden table. Ian looks up from his blueberry pancakes with a silent question present in his furrowed eyebrows, his mouth slightly downturned in worry, and the question in his eyes slowly turning into concern when he realizes that Anthony hasn’t touched his food.

_Stop being concerned about me_ , Anthony thinks as he averts his gaze to look out the window instead of meeting Ian’s eyes. _Stop caring about me. I’m not worth it._

_I’m going to break your heart._

Anthony inhales sharply at the thought and lets himself imagine what that would be like. Ian would be the consummate professional. He would internalize his emotions the way he internalizes everything else, would make sure that the work gets done despite the situation. He would be calm, cool, and collected, Anthony thinks, but that would just be that. They wouldn’t hang out anymore, and though they wouldn’t risk letting the crew even begin to suspect that something’s different between the two of them, they wouldn’t be able to be near each other if it isn’t absolutely necessary.

(An eye for an eye, right? Break Ian’s heart and let Ian break his own. Aren’t relationships supposed to be a two-way street?)

Anthony looks at Ian, and his heart thuds painfully in his chest.

(This isn’t a relationship.)

“Hey,” Ian says when he sees Anthony finally looking at him. It’s hushed and meant to be private, a reminder that can barely be heard above the late-morning hustle and bustle of the café.

“Yeah?” Anthony replies, finally starting to cut into his own stack of pancakes for lack of anything better to do. He looks down and watches his own hand make a clean diagonal cut with a stainless-steel knife, feeling a little bit like an outsider looking in, like someone other than him is controlling his body and there is nothing for him to do to stop it.

“Look at me,” Ian says, and if it sounds like a plea, that’s because it is.

Anthony looks up. “What?” he says, his tone sharper than what he intended it to be. Immediately, he feels ashamed for snapping at Ian, but before he can apologize, he looks at him with a keener eye and realizes that the sharp tone has slid off his back like water down a turtle’s shell.

Ian has always been good at knowing when Anthony doesn’t mean something, such as this anger that’s just as easily gone as it appeared.

“Listen,” Ian says, voice hushed as he puts his hand palm up on the table, in that little space between their plates, “this is supposed to be our time, right?”

_Our_ time. A hard and heavy lump shoots up Anthony’s throat and gets stuck there. It’s hard to ignore, and harder still to swallow past. “Yeah,” he eventually chokes out.

“So stop overthinking.” Ian’s voice is simple and to-the-point. He smiles ruefully, and immediately Anthony knows that under the table, Ian’s knee is bouncing up and down the way it usually does when he’s restless or anxious. “I know that’s hard to ask from you, but I just.” He takes a deep breath. “I can’t keep you from thinking what you want to think or, well, doing what you want to do for that matter, but I just…fuck.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Anthony says, shaking his head and putting his hand on the table as well, grasping Ian’s hand without any concern for who might see them. “Don’t be sorry.”

It’s funny, Anthony thinks, how sometimes it’s the writers who run out of words.

(It’s funny, Anthony thinks, how sometimes it’s the comedians who laugh at times like these.)

The thing is, Anthony knows what Ian’s trying to say. He says _stop overthinking_ and means _stop thinking about her_ , like he still hasn’t figured out that Anthony’s entire world revolves around him, that he’s in Anthony’s thoughts night and day. Anthony can’t blame him for thinking like this, though, because Ian’s a smart man, and he’s figured out that Anthony still hasn’t figured out everything yet.

And isn’t that what he’s supposed to have done by now? Figuring things out shouldn’t be this hard.

(What does he want?)

Ian smiles from across the table, his blue eyes somehow brightening in delight, and Anthony feels his head thud painfully in his chest.

(Him. Anthony wants him.)

 

 

 

_Wired_ is an easy interview. Every time Anthony watches Ian explain to someone why his phone is in a Ziploc bag, he has to stop himself from laughing out loud. It’s such a ridiculous situation that Anthony finds it hard to keep himself from grinning. Ian’s normally very careful with his things, and so to have this happen to him feels unreal.

_Bon Apetit_ is easy too. Doing press tours usually gets boring pretty quick because of the repetitive and unimaginative questions, but today seems to be different. It’s gimmick after gimmick, and soon enough, Anthony realizes that he and Ian don’t have to entertain each other during interviews anymore the way they used to before to avoid falling asleep.

Lunch is easy and less angst-ridden than breakfast was. Chatting easily with the rest of the press tour crew in a small Mediterranean restaurant takes so much of Anthony’s focus that he doesn’t get the chance to think about his and Ian’s relationship as much as he thought he would. It doesn’t matter anyway—Ian is seated far from him, nestled between their press tour manager and an assistant sent by Google to accompany them to Youtube Space later in the afternoon.

It’s hard to find time alone. When they’re not with the crew, they’re in front of the cameras, filming interviews with various people. Anthony finds that he’s restless, eager to get everything finished so he and Ian can finally be away from prying eyes.

There’s only so much Anthony can do to try to ignore the phantom itch in his fingers.

“You know,” Ian says when they’re (finally) done for the day, opening the glass door and exiting the Youtube Space building beside Anthony, “today was a lot more hectic than I thought. I thought we would be free to do anything we wanted two hours ago.”

Anthony shrugs, one hand absently zipping up his jacket the rest of the way. “We need better work on our schedules, I guess,” he says, already looking for a taxi. He and Ian had waved away the rest of the press tour crew, choosing to just head to their hotel on their own time in a taxi.

Ian hums. “So…what are we doing tonight?”

Anthony looks at Ian, carefully gauging his expression. “I don’t know,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. This time, he’s going to let Ian make the decisions. “What do you want to do?”

Ian shrugs, looking up at the sky. “I was hoping we could maybe hang out,” he admits, voice low as if the admission is shameful, “but you know, it’s up to you.”

Anthony looks at him. Just once he would like Ian to stop thinking about Anthony and start thinking about himself.

“What do you want?” Anthony asks, curious, because he’s done with taking liberties and making all the decisions.

(This is the new him, remember?)

Ian looks at him. He’s searching for something, Anthony knows, because his eyes are roaming over his face with a purpose. He must find it, whatever it is, because he smiles at Anthony and admits, “I don’t really know. I just know I want to spend time with you.”

Anthony sucks in a deep breath. Around them, people continue walking to their destinations, uncaring of the two of them, or the fact that they’re just there, stationary on the sidewalk. The entire world keeps on moving, and yet Anthony doesn’t feel like he’s moving with everyone else. He feels half a step out of sync with everyone else, and hearing Ian say those words makes him feel like he’s stumbling, like he’s falling further out of step with everyone else.

The amazing thing is this, though: Anthony exhales, and he feels all right again, like stumbling was the only thing he needed all along to fall into step with everyone else again.

Sure, it’s a cheesy thought, but it matches Ian’s cheesy line.

“Okay,” he responds, even though it’s not okay, because Ian isn’t supposed to affect him like this. Anthony didn’t sign up for feeling like drowning whenever he’s away from Ian and feeling like falling whenever he is.

(What did he sign up for?)

Anthony flags down a taxi and gets in.

(He doesn’t know.)

Their taxi ride is a surprisingly short one. The driver weaves in an out of traffic in a way that only an experienced New Yorker would know how to do, and within a few minutes, Anthony’s handing money to the driver and stepping out of the taxi into the cold New York afternoon.

For a few moments, Anthony can’t do anything but merely look at the hotel he and Ian are staying at. He only has a few days here left. He might as well make the most of them, right?

“I’m going to pack up my suitcase,” Anthony mumbles as he and Ian step into the lobby. “I’ll be in your room soon.”

Ian looks at him, eyes discerning. “Okay,” he replies, but Anthony hears the (unspoken) worry and the questions that Ian didn’t breathe into life.

They step into the elevator in silence. Elevator music, soft and unobtrusive, plays in the background, something Anthony didn’t even notice earlier that morning, busy as he was focusing on other (more important) things, such as the rowdy family they rode with and the feeling of Ian’s hand in his.

Anthony closes his eyes and inhales deeply. If he thinks hard enough, he imagines he can feel Ian’s hand against his up to the very minute detail, the contrast between his rough palm and his soft fingers, the difference between the warmth of his touch and the coldness of his fingertips.

Here, with no one else in the elevator but the two of them, Anthony doesn’t dare reach for his hand, no matter the fact that he (clearly) wants to. Too many people might be watching their every move. It’s just not safe.

(When did he start to value safety over happiness?)

Opening his eyes, Anthony bites his lip and directs his attention to the changing floor numbers at the top of the elevator doors instead of trying to subtly look at Ian through the corners of his eyes. Anthony finds himself impatient to get out of the stifling silence of the elevator, and weird doesn’t even begin to explain it, because—

—didn’t he want to be here?

Didn’t he spend weeks counting down the days until he and Ian were supposed to fly to New York from LA? Didn’t he spend hours already planning when he’ll (inevitably) stay in Ian’s hotel room? Didn’t he spend (too much and yet not enough) time covering up his tracks and being careful by vlogging in his own room so he can have evidence against a relationship (with Ian) that no one has accused him of having?

Doesn’t he want this?

The elevator doors open with a low whoosh, and Anthony steps outside without looking back at Ian. He forces himself to move, step by step, until he’s right in front of his hotel room and taking his room keycard out of his pocket with slightly shaking hands.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath when the light remains red. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and releases it in a shaky exhale.

He knows what this is, of course. He knows all too well the feeling of a heart beating (too) loud and (too) hard.

This is guilt.

He (finally) gets the door open on the sixth try. He walks in and quickly closes the door behind him, his hands shaking less once he’s alone in the relative privacy of his hotel room.

“Get a fucking grip,” he says, though he doesn’t quite move away from the door. Instead, he leans back against it and closes his eyes.

What is he doing? Hurting Miel and Ian at the same time just because he can’t decide what he wants more—this isn’t what he wanted.

Anthony sighs.

Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Him, knowing what he wants but unwilling to choose between one or the other?

(Sacrifice safety and familiarity with Miel for passion and adventure with Ian? Or is it the other way around?)

He swallows past the lump in his throat and pushes himself off the door, forcing himself to move to the bathroom and start taking his things, his hands absently grabbing his toothbrush and razor from the sink as his mind struggles to wade through all the things that he knows about his current situation (with Ian).

One hand grabs his shoes by the door and he thinks about the way Miel looks in the morning, when she’s sleepily kissing him goodbye on the lips right before he leaves to run through the streets of downtown LA. Another hand grabs a plastic bag from the table to put his shoes in and he thinks about the way Ian looks in the morning, smiling at him in that trusting way when Anthony leans over the (hotel) bed and kisses him on the forehead.

He grabs his laptop from the table, and he thinks about going home to Miel and her dog, about eating dinner with her as he tells her all about his day and she tells him all about hers. He puts his laptop in his backpack, and he thinks about (possibly) going home to Ian and his dog, about eating dinner with him as they exchange jokes and business commentaries.

Anthony thinks about loving her (him) passionately and without limitations, thinks about the way her (his) legs intertwine with his under the (hotel) sheets, thinks about just how seeing her (him) brightens his entire day. He thinks about her (him) in his life and how much better his life has become because of her (him), thinks about the way his heart seems to skip a beat whenever he sees her (him), thinks about the way he loves her (him) so much that it seems like _love_ cannot even begin to describe what he feels, this gaping space that could be filled with so much more if he only let it.

(In the human body, there are potential spaces, cavities that can exist between two bodily structures that are normally pressed together.)

This is what he’s done and what he continues to do: he finds the similarities between them and focuses on them instead of on the differences because then maybe he can ignore the fact that he’s settling for something (someone) else when he doesn’t really have to.

So why settle for something ( ~~less~~ ) else?

(punishment?)

(no.)

It’s fear, he decides. Mask fear as selflessness enough times—reason to himself that this arrangement will be better for him and Ian in the long run enough times—and maybe he’ll eventually start to believe the lies he’s been telling himself all this time.

(Lie to himself the way he lies to Miel whenever he talks about trips with Ian away from LA, right? Maybe then he’ll start to believe himself the way Miel does, too.)

He looks at the haphazard pile of his belongings in his suitcase and sighs.

Thing is, there isn’t even any contest. There hasn’t been one since he started justifying this new-old relationship with Ian.

(Unbidden, the memory of Ian’s hand in his springs to mind, the feel of his fingers intertwined with Anthony’s branded into him so completely, it would be impossible to forget it.)

With high risk comes high reward, right?

Question is: how much is he willing to risk?

(Not enough, he thinks as he looks at the small box sitting in his suitcase, beneath a pair of jeans and wrinkled polo.)

Anthony takes out his phone.

He vlogs.

 

 

 

They’re both lying naked in Ian’s bed, Anthony nestled against Ian. Outside, New York City is bustling with activity. Inside, the soft hum of the hotel air conditioning accompanies Ian and Anthony’s breathing.

It’s as close to a feeling of peace Anthony will ever get.

Ian shifts a little, and Anthony moves to let him get settled before lying close beside him again. This close, he wishes he can just take out his phone and start recording this the way he records everything else. He needs the reminder, he thinks, that this really did happen. That this isn’t a figment of his imagination.

“We’re going to need to get dinner soon,” Ian idly comments, one hand absently coming up to play with the curls of Anthony’s hair.

“Do we really _need_ to?” Anthony asks, just this side of whining.

Ian chuckles, a low, affectionate sound. “Food _is_ a necessity, yes.”

Anthony smiles. He closes his eyes and turns on his side so that his body is facing Ian’s. He feels Ian’s arms tighten around him, and his smile grows just that little bit more.

“You’re making me not want to leave this bed,” Ian says, voice soft.

Anthony opens his eyes, laughing. “I hope I’ve been making you not want to leave this bed since I got in this room.”

“Well,” Ian says, pausing to think about his next words, “for a moment there, I _did_ want to leave the bed to pin you against the door. Does that count?”

Anthony thinks about Ian pinning him against the solid wooden door with his fingers wrapped around Anthony’s wrists, and he blushes. “Yes,” he lies.

Ian shakes his head in amusement, or at least tries to with his head still comfortably positioned on one of the soft, white pillows. “Come on,” he says, starting to pull away. “Get up. Let’s do something.”

Anthony groans as he feels Ian retract his arm from underneath him. “What is ‘something’ in this scenario?” he asks, enjoying the view of a naked Ian walking to the window and peeking between the curtains to look at the view they have of the busy New York streets. Ian turns around, and Anthony says, “am I the ‘something’?”

Ian snorts. “Cheesy,” he says, though he walks back to the bed and leans over Anthony. Anthony leans toward him and kisses him softly, familiar lips moving against his own in the way only the two of them know—brief and without tongue and so, so good.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Anthony says, a little breathily, when they both pull away. “You don’t fix what’s not broken.”

Ian smiles, and Anthony watches, as if in slow motion, the way his eyes crinkle at the sides, the way his lips curve up at the edges, the way he looks ready to burst out an amused chuckle in the moment.

This is a memory he would like to keep forever.

“You’re right,” Ian says, before holding Anthony’s hand and tugging him up just enough that Anthony is forced to sit up. “However, I am starving, and we need to get up some time.”

Anthony sighs.

“If you get up,” Ian says, smiling that cheeky, convincing smile of his, “we’ll do something special.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow in question, not moving from his spot on the bed.

“We’ll do something you want to do—”

“—so we’ll stay in bed?”

“—that is not staying in bed,” Ian finished.

Anthony thinks about it. Truth be told, it’s hard to figure out what else he wants to do with Ian that doesn’t involve both of them naked and, preferably, a bed. It’s one of the few things that they can only do here, away from LA and all the craziness it entails. And right now, Anthony wants to take advantage of this entire thing while he can.

They only have a few days left. He’s going to make every single moment count.

“I want a dance.”

Ian’s eyebrows furrow. “A dance?”

It’s not often that Anthony can catch Ian off guard, so he revels in the feeling for a few moments before nodding.

“All right,” Ian says as he shrugs in the way that perfectly conveys the expression of _fuck it_. “Come on, we’re dancing.”

Smiling, Anthony graciously admits defeat and finally puts his feet on the ground. He stands up from the bed, uncaring of the fact that he’s buck naked. “I mean serious dancing, okay? Not dancing to, like, club music, or whatever.”

“Serious dancing?” Ian says, grinning as he taps his phone. Almost immediately, an instrumental music begins to play on the tinny speakers of his phone, familiar and yet not quite.

“Mozart?” Anthony guesses, because he’s not the best at this sort of thing, and really, the only two composers he can name are Mozart and Beethoven. And he can’t even remember Beethoven’s entire name.

“Nah,” Ian says, stepping closer to Anthony. “Tchaikovsky.”

Anthony shakes his head, amused. “I am not dancing to this with you,” his voice turning into a whisper when Ian steps even closer to him, until their toes are touching and there is only a few inches between their lips.

“Why not?” Ian whispers back.

“Because this is ballet music.”

Ian grins. “You said you wanted serious music.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder to see his phone on the nightstand. “This is fancy, too. Oh, and it’s Nutcracker, by the way.”

“Ah,” Anthony says, nodding. “I couldn’t figure out the name.”

Ian holds out his hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow. “To this?”

“I have Youtube on autoplay,” Ian says by way of explanation. His hand is still outstretched, patiently waiting for Anthony to grasp it with his own. “Maybe Beethoven will play after this. Or Mozart.”

“Knowing what you watch, there’s a big chance that the next video might end up being a GTS episode,” Anthony says, shaking his head, but he takes Ian’s hand anyway and steps closer to him. He smiles and closes his eyes, content.

“That’s even fancier,” Ian says, his voice soft, like he doesn’t want to break whatever spell they’re in. “We’ll just have to see, I guess.”

Anthony opens his eyes. “You’re wild,” he says dryly.

“I like to live dangerously,” Ian whispers back, and Anthony throws his head back in laughter.

Eventually, the music ends, and something more soothing comes on. At this point, Anthony removes his hand from Ian’s grasp and puts his arms on Ian’s shoulders, leaning forward to place his forehead against Ian’s. His eyes closed, Anthony sways in place, moving when and where he instinctively wants to.

Here, it’s just the two of them. Their breathing is soft, and their feet are steady as they try to sway to the tempo of the piano piece playing on Ian’s phone. Ian’s hands are just barely on Anthony’s waist, reverent, as if Ian can’t quite believe that his hands are allowed to be there, as if Anthony is something precious to protect.

Anthony opens his eyes to see Ian looking at him intently, eyes roaming over his face like he’s looking for something important.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Ian says, meeting his eyes. “I’m just…I want to remember this.”

It’s as close to an admission that this isn’t enough for Ian as Anthony will ever get.

(why cheat?)

Anthony looks at Ian’s lips, red and plump and kiss-sore, and he leans in, closing his eyes the moment their lips meet. This kiss is passionate, but not hurried—a kiss shared by two lovers who are kissing for the sake of it.

Anthony pulls away from the kiss and doesn’t stop swaying with Ian to the rhythm of the music. His feet make tiny steps, and he watches as Ian follows his lead, watches as Ian tilts his head until he has his head on Anthony’s shoulder.

(because.)

They’re not even dancing anymore. The most they’re doing is swaying in place while they have each other in their arms in the middle of Ian’s hotel room in New York City. It feels magical, almost, feels like something Anthony hasn’t felt before.

(he makes me feel alive.)

The music comes to an end, and suddenly, the sounds of New York come rushing back to him. He hears the honking of cars in the distance, hears sirens, hears the crackle of thunder as the clouds threaten to bring about rain.

Anthony opens his eyes.

This close, Anthony thinks, Ian’s eyes are so, so blue.

“Hey, Anthony?” Ian’s heart is almost heartbreakingly soft, like he’s asking for something he’s not sure Anthony will give him.

“Yeah?” Anthony answers, equally soft.

Ian gives him a small smile, almost self-deprecating in the way it is presented. “I love you.”

He says it simply, says it in the way he does everything else. It’s a statement that doesn’t need a response, the way Ian meant it to be.

(This is how Ian loves him: he keeps everything open-ended, never forcing Anthony to give him an answer, never pleading, always understanding.)

Anthony, feeling that burning feeling in the back of his eyes, leans forward and presses his head against the side of Ian’s neck. He closes his eyes as he feels Ian start to move them once more, one tiny step to the side followed by another tiny step to the other side.

He presses his answer to the pale skin on Ian’s neck, just a few a couple of inches away from an angry red hickey. “I love you too,” he confesses, lips brushing over sensitive skin, quiet and yet loud enough in this pocket of space and time that they have managed to pause for just a few moments and have all to themselves.

Anthony feels Ian suck in a sharp breath, and he settles in closer. “I love you,” he says, letting his words leave his mouth and immediately sink into Ian’s skin until Anthony can imagine the words branding themselves onto Ian’s neck, “I love you.”

(There’s a saying, somewhere.)

Ian stops swaying and leans back, forcing Anthony to remove his head from where it is comfortable nestled on Ian’s shoulder.

Anthony opens his eyes.

(It’s a Catholic thing, mostly.)

Ian smiles at him, genuine and happy, like he got something he wasn’t even hoping to get, and Anthony feels his heart thud painfully in his chest.

Ian leans in and presses a soft kiss against Anthony’s lips.

(It’s about hating wrongful deeds, but being compassionate to those who have done them.)

Anthony lets out a happy sigh and pulls Ian in closer, kissing him back with all he’s got.

He feels Ian’s hands let go of his waist to slowly make their way up his naked back.

(Anthony thinks he might have overdone it.)

“Bed?” Anthony asks in between gasps of breath once they both finally pull away.

“Bed,” Ian answers.

(Truth is, he’s never been a good Catholic.)

Ian walks Anthony over to the bed and follows Anthony as he falls down, one hand coming up to brace himself against the mattress.

Ian presses his mouth against the side of Anthony’s neck.

(He thinks he might have overdone it, at any case.)

“Jesus,” Anthony breathes out, eyes shut tight as he feels electricity run down his spine and settle in his groin.

He feels Ian grin against his skin.

(But still.)

Anthony opens his eyes as Ian pulls away and leans over him, the artificial lighting of the hotel room somehow bathing him in light like a halo, making his hair seem more golden than it really is.

“I love you,” Anthony says.

(Hate the sin and love the sinner, right?)

 

 

 

Central Park at six in the morning feels relaxed in the way that nothing else about New York feels quite like it. Starbucks cups in hand—a cup of hot chocolate with almond milk for him and a caramel latte for Ian—they sit down on one of the benches and quietly sip at their drinks.

They’ve done this before. While on the press tour for their first movie, they had gone here too, had taken a few moments out of their busy schedule to just sit and think, to enjoy the (relative) stillness this place can offer.

No place is perfect. Anthony fully expects some fans to make their way here and ask for pictures with him and Ian.

“We only have a few days left,” Ian says, quiet.

Anthony looks up from the ground. It’s the first time Ian has addressed that issue since they got here. “I know,” he says, for lack of anything else to say.

For a few moments, they’re both silent. Anthony watches as various joggers pass them by, absently sipping his hot chocolate. New York weather at this time of year is indecisive, and today it is even more so. While the day promised them warm sun and an okay weather, they stepped out of the hotel to biting winds and a weather that’s threatening snow.

“What do you want to do with the rest of our time here?” Ian asks, putting his drink beside him and rubbing his palms together.

(Not: _what do you want to do when we go back to LA?_ )

Anthony shakes his head.

Another sip of the hot chocolate.

“I don’t know.”

There are limits to what they can talk about here. Even while in a (mostly) quiet space, there’s always the possibility that someone’s watching, or that someone’s approaching. By now, making sure their tracks are covered has become second-nature to both of them.

Here they are, older and more experienced and maybe, just maybe, a little more jaded. Not more mature, no, but _jaded_ , the way people who hope for the best and are constantly disappointed tend to be.

The problem with him is he’s never learned.

He’s supposed to have figured things out by now. To be fair, there’s a lot of things he’s supposed to have figured out by now, but this, especially, is at the top of the list.

(Some days, it’s the _entire_ list.)

Thing is, they’ve fallen into a familiar pattern, an infinite loop filled with things they shouldn’t be doing. _Goodbye_ has stopped being final and started being temporary. _Love_ has stopped being a feeling and started being a label. _Betrayal_ has stopped being filthy and started being pure.

Truth is, Anthony’s been feeling like this for a while, like he’s in front of the camera filming another Smosh video with Ian even when he’s not. Try and try again, right? Do a take, do another take, do as many takes as you need until you get the shot you want.

(Kiss Ian. Kiss Ian again. Kiss Ian again and again until you feel like you’ve managed to tell him through actions what you really feel.)

Lather, rinse, repeat.

“Let’s do something new.” Ian bites his lip. “Let’s do something interesting.”

Anthony raises his eyebrows. “Ideas?”

“Touristy shit,” Ian says, with the determination of a man walking to his death sentence.

Anthony laughs, a surprised burst of sound. “You don’t have to sound so pained about it, man.”

Ian shrugs. It’s his go-to reaction for everything, these days. “Technically, I don’t have to do anything.”

Anthony snorts. He shakes his head and grabs his drink. “Don’t get philosophical on me.”

“Okay, how about this?” Ian asks, turning in his seat to look at Anthony. “Breakfast, then touristy shit. We can even go to the Empire State Building.”

“Why the Empire State Building?”

“I don’t know,” Ian says, voice quiet. “I’ve never been there. Figured now is as good a time as any.”

Anthony smiles. Ian never did like going to touristy places. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to go there.”

“I know,” Ian says, meeting Anthony’s gaze. “And yet I’m asking.”

It feels like a privilege, somehow.

Maybe it is.

 

 

 

Breakfast goes like this:

A table near the back of the small café they found near Central Park, an order of blueberry pancakes for Anthony and an order of eggs and bacon for Ian, quiet conversations lost in the din of other people’s conversations.

Breakfast is the two of them sitting on the same side of a small, secluded booth, knees touching under the table and their fingers intertwined while they wait for their meals. Breakfast is soft, secretive smiles shared over large plates of freshly-cooked food, their casual conversations ranging in topics from their press tour to the weirdest Youtube video they’ve seen lately.

The Empire State Building trip goes like this:

Overpriced tickets bought from a random person on the sidewalk, heading into the lobby and immediately avoiding all the tourists trying to get their pictures taken in front of the Empire State Building replica, walking into the elevator with a crowd of people and ignoring the desire to hold each other’s hand while no one is watching.

The Empire State Building trip is getting to the top deck and watching Ian take multiple pictures of the New York skyline, is giving in and asking a stranger to take a picture of the two of them, is not bothering to resist the urge to put his arm around Ian’s shoulder while their photo is being taken.

It’s not anything new, at least for Anthony. He’s gone to the Empire State Building plenty of times before, and breakfast has always been uneventful for him. There’s something about experiencing both with Ian, however, that makes everything feel brand new to him.

This is the acting out of a fantasy.

Anthony looks at Ian, looks at the appreciative expression on his face, the awed smile gracing his lips, the way the wind is ruffling Ian’s hair into slight disarray, and knows he would take him everywhere, if only he were allowed.

_Tokyo, London, Paris._

(What would it feel like to be alone with him somewhere else?)

 

 

 

This is wrong.

Anthony wants to believe that he’s never deluded himself into thinking what they’re doing is right, but at this point, he’s not entirely sure anymore. Too often he tries to justify actions despite the consequences.

They’re back in Ian’s hotel room, hands wandering as they blindly lead each other to the bed by the lips. Ian’s hands are pools of fire on Anthony’s skin as Ian tries to remove Anthony’s shirt without pulling away from his lips. Anthony raises his arms to help Ian out, immediately leaning forward and capturing Ian’s lips into a kiss that speaks of (too much) emotion when Ian finally has his shirt in his hand.

From there on, everything is a blurry mess.

Ian kisses his way down Anthony’s neck, reverent, like he’s marking parts of Anthony to prove to himself he still has this, no matter what. He keeps on his way until he reaches Anthony’s nipple, dusty rose and peaked from arousal, and takes it into his mouth without warning.

Anthony releases a breathy exhale and brings his hands to Ian’s head, trying to keep him where he is. He feels a line of heat go straight down his spine and pool in his lower belly.

Ian pulls back, only to lavish attention onto Anthony’s other nipple.

Pushing through the haziness in his mind, Anthony directs them both to the bed and falls down onto it without any sort of grace, pulling Ian down with him. Ian pulls back from his torso and takes a minute to just stay there, on top of him, looking at him like he’s something precious, and Anthony finds that he’s more breathless now from a look than he was before from actual contact.

There’s something about Ian, he thinks as he takes Ian’s shirt off with Ian’s help. There’s something about how he can look at you in that way he has and remind you of just how much you mean to him.

(Is that how he looks at Pam, too?)

“I’ve missed you,” Anthony admits, his hands roaming up until they’re both on Ian’s bony shoulders. His skin has always been smooth, Anthony belatedly thinks, despite the fact that he’s never been a fan of lotion. He lets his thumbs rest in the small dip between Ian’s shoulder and collarbone. “I’ve missed this.”

Anthony watches as Ian removes his right hand from the bed, raising it to remove Anthony’s hand from his shoulder and bringing it to his lips. His mouth a little dry, Anthony swallows as he feels the soft warmth of Ian’s lips against the back of his hand.

It’s a chaste kiss and nothing more.

Amazing, how much a simple action like that can make Anthony feel so much.

As soon as Ian lets go of Anthony’s hand, Anthony leans up and kisses him, lips immediately sliding against eager lips, a kiss that cannot be called as chaste as the one Ian just pressed against the back of his hand. He feels his eyes slip closed the moment Ian’s lips open to let his tongue in, feels a moan growing in the back of his throat as Ian’s tongue curls against his, feels that moan slip out when he feels Ian’s hand slip to the back of his neck to hold him steadily against him.

Hands moving downward, Anthony lets out a shaky moan when he feels Ian through his pants. Anthony pulls away from the kiss in an effort to get Ian’s belt unbuckled, but his effort immediately goes to waste when Ian moves in and starts kissing down his neck, his mouth hot and moist against Anthony’s skin. Anthony curls his hands into fists and closes his eyes, feeling that almost unbearable line of heat zap down his spine and pool in his groin.

Letting out a sigh, Anthony uncurls his hands and presses them against Ian’s crotch. Ian lets out a quiet sigh, his hot breath making goosebumps erupt on Anthony’s skin.

One simple touch.

Concentrating to the best of his ability, Anthony opens his eyes and manages to unbuckle Ian’s belt after a few tries, his hands slightly shaking as Ian continues his way down the side of Anthony’s neck. It’s not too long before he has Ian’s jeans unbuttoned. He’s about to go and unzip Ian’s jeans when Ian sucks a hickey an inch above his nipple and lights his nerve endings on fire.

His hands go slack and his eyes slip closed. “Fuck, Ian,” he half-stuttered, voice broken and just this side of gravel-rough. Ian moves even lower, capturing his nipple in his mouth, and Anthony’s hands fly up to grip Ian’s hips, unyielding underneath his fingers. He arches up, eager to chase the sweet heat of Ian’s mouth, and his mouth falls open in a silent groan when he inadvertently presses against Ian’s groin.

“Shit,” Ian breathes out against Anthony’s skin, no doubt having felt the same thing Anthony just felt, that pool of immense heat in his lower belly, that teasing brush of hard heat against hard heat.

It feels almost unbearable, the constricting tightness of his own underwear against his erection, and Anthony suddenly feels like this is too slow, like there is a time for passion that takes its time, and that is not now.

Now is supposed to be moving against each other with wild abandon, rough kisses marking its territory in sensitive spots only the two of them will be able to see in these few days they have together, short fingernails raking down each other’s back and leaving thin lines of redness nonetheless. Now is frantic and easy and taking pleasure as freely as it is given.

Holding Ian in his arms more securely, Anthony turns until he’s on top, until he’s looking down and seeing Ian looking gorgeously debauched against rumpled white sheets, his hair ruffled beyond any hope of salvaging, his lips kiss-sore and his torso stained with handprints.

This is a painter’s wet dream, Anthony belatedly thinks as he settles on Ian’s lap and moves forward to feel his own denim-clad groin brush against Ian’s. Too bad Ian is all his.

(Or is he?)

Eager to push away the thought before it can fully form in his head, Anthony unzips Ian’s jeans with unhesitating fingers, pulling down his jeans when Ian lifts his hips up to help him. He leaves the jeans pooled around Ian’s ankles, letting Ian remove them himself by wiggling his legs, and zeroes in instead on the wet spot on Ian’s black boxer-briefs, his cock clearly outlined by the fabric.

Anthony watches as Ian captures his bottom lip with his teeth, biting down before letting go. Anthony leans in until his nose is just barely brushing against that wet spot on Ian’s boxer-briefs, until he has Ian’s legs bracketing the sides of him. For a few seconds, he lets himself just breathe in and out slowly, Ian’s scent so much stronger and headier where Anthony is.

Teasing is half the point here, anyway.

From the corners of his eyes, Anthony can see the minute shaking of Ian’s thighs, tense with anticipation. Smiling to himself, Anthony moves in and licks right around the wet spot, where the head of Ian’s cock should be beneath the opaque fabric. Almost immediately, Ian bucks up against him with wild abandon, and Anthony places his hands on Ian’s thighs, gripping them tight in an effort to minimize movement.

Ian’s fingers slide into Anthony’s hair, and Anthony lets out an open-mouthed groan against Ian’s crotch.

“Fuck, Anthony,” Ian stutters out, gripping Anthony’s hair tighter when Anthony leans back in and licks a stripe up his cock. “Come on, please.”

There’s something about hearing his name come out of Ian’s lips like this, Anthony thinks. There’s something about how Ian stutters out Anthony’s name, breathy and low, like a filthy confession. Anthony doesn’t hear him moan out his name enough, in his opinion, but there’s nothing to be done about that.

(Is that how he moans out Pam’s name too?)

Anthony drags in a sharp breath and viciously reaches up and tugs Ian’s boxer-briefs down.

He’s not going to think about that (today). This is for him and Ian. No one else.

As he continues dragging Ian’s boxer-briefs down his legs, he lets the knuckles of his curled fingers skim down Ian’s skin in a teasing caress. When he finally gets Ian’s underwear off, he takes a moment to press a gentle kiss to Ian’s ankle, smiling when he sees Ian’s toes curl, before moving back up and capturing Ian’s mouth in a kiss.

Ian’s tongue curls against Anthony’s, and he feels lightning shoot through his veins, feels another moan bubble up his throat. His skin feels too tight and too loose at the same time, somehow.

Anthony’s head feels light. It may be because of the lack of breath in his lungs, yes, but then again, it may be because of something else. Like Ian’s hands, for example, the way they’re steadily making their way down until they’re just above Anthony’s cock, his thumb a mere inch from the head, or Ian’s tongue, clever as it twists and curls and explores every single nook and cranny in Anthony’s mouth.

Opening his eyes—at what point did he even close them, he wonders—Anthony reaches down and unbuckles his own belt, mouth slipping against Ian’s until their shared kisses are as messy as the sheets they’re on. The moment he has his jeans unzipped, he feels Ian’s hands against his still-clothed cock, hot and teasing and not even remotely enough.

Anthony breathes out against Ian’s mouth, his eyes slipping closed as Ian’s hand cups him through his boxer-briefs.

Ian pulls away from Anthony’s mouth just enough so he can press kisses up Anthony’s cheek until he reaches Anthony’s ear. “I’ve missed this too,” he whispers, soft lips brushing against the shell of Anthony’s ear. “I’ve missed you too.”

He presses a kiss to Anthony’s ear, chaste, and it should be weird, but it really isn’t. Instead, Anthony feels a little ticklish, a sensation that is quickly forgotten when Ian moves down to suck a hickey on Anthony’s neck, just below his earlobe.

Completely lost in the sensation of Ian’s lips against his skin, Anthony nearly forgets about Ian’s hands on his erection, at least until he realizes that one of Ian’s hands has wriggled itself into his boxer-briefs, clever fingers touching his cock in an almost-reverent manner, feather-light.

“Jesus, Ian,” he breathes out, head bowing down as he succumbs to the pleasure. His skin feels on fire.

Too soon, Ian removes his hand from Anthony’s boxer-briefs, and for one moment, Anthony finds himself bereft. That is, until he realizes that Ian removed his hands so he can help Anthony undress. The moment he feels Ian tug down his underwear and jeans, he sits up all the way so he can do it himself, too impatient.

When he falls back down on top of Ian, skin sliding against sweaty skin, it feels right. Ian’s body is an oasis against the flame that Anthony can feel consuming his being.

“Fuck,” Anthony breathes out when he accidentally moves against Ian, their cocks brushing. Beneath him, Ian is flushed, his eyes tightly closed as his mouth opens in a silent moan.

He doesn’t know what it is that makes him think. Maybe it’s the way Ian looks against the sheets, a wet dream consisting of pale skin and dark red fingerprints, or maybe it’s just the way everything feels, raw and tender even as they’re both impatient for completion. He doesn’t know what it is, but the thought comes to his mind anyway, unbidden.

(What would it be like to have this in his own bed, in his own house, instead of an anonymous hotel?)

Ian chases the thought away by bucking up, purposefully rubbing against Anthony. “Shit,” he mutters, eyes opening when he bucks up once more. “Fuck, Anthony, please.”

With an amount of self-restraint that surprises him, Anthony stays where he is, unmoving even though every single nerve ending is begging him to move, Goddamn it, just move, until his entire body is slick with sweat, until his cock is rubbing insistently against Ian’s, until he can hear Ian utter his name once more in a broken moan. “Please what?” Anthony asks, struggling to remain cool, his abdomen quivering from the effort it takes to remain still.

Ian watches him, and despite the fact that his irises are nothing more than a thin rim of dark, stormy blue around dilated pupils, Anthony can tell that he’s planning something, can tell that there’s a gleam in those eyes, the way they do when Ian thinks of something mischievous.

Anthony feels Ian’s hands grip his waist, tight and unyielding, and has to struggle to rein in a groan. One hand moves until it is flat on Anthony’s back, his touch like a searing brand on Anthony’s skin.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Ian pushes down, and Anthony follows, leaning down until there’s barely any space between their chests, close enough that their chests brush against each other with every heaving breath.

“Please what?” Ian whispers against his ears, lips brushing his ear as he carefully enunciates each word. “Is that what you’re asking, Anthony?”

Anthony gives a slight nod, anticipation making him feel more jittery than he appears. He wants to know what Ian will do next. This has turned into a game, somehow, and it feels like Ian’s about to win.

He’s okay with that, he finds.

(There’s not much he wouldn’t do for Ian, at this point.)

“Well, here’s what I want,” Ian continues, unaware of the thoughts running through Anthony’s mind. “I want you to move against me with intent. I want you to stop teasing me. I want you to leave marks on me. I want you to use me, Anthony, in the best way possible.” He bites lightly on Anthony’s earlobe, tugging it softly before letting go. “Please.”

And just like that, Anthony loses it. He feels electricity run down his spine, feels precum spurt out as Ian’s words ring in his ears.

His hips move, and Anthony throws his head back, liquid heat running through his veins as he feels that brief contact with Ian’s cock. He moves again, making sure to open his eyes this time, and his effort is quickly rewarded. Underneath him, Ian is half-lidded with pleasure, bottom lip caught by his teeth in an effort to reduce the moans coming out of his mouth.

Anthony moves again, viciously, chasing that sweet hot pleasure-pain. “I want to hear you.” He adjusts his hands on the bed to allow himself better leverage. “Come on, Ian.”

Ian releases his bottom lip and immediately gasps when he feels Anthony move against him. His fingers grip Anthony even tighter, urging him to move against him faster, harder, with more abandon, until they’re both coming apart and coming together. He trails one hand up to press against a hardened nipple, smiling when Anthony moans.

“Shit,” Anthony breathes out. He feels drunk, almost, feels lightheaded and warm all over, feels like he’s on the very edge and that the slightest push will send him tumbling over into depths unknown. Panting, he removes one hand from the bed and wraps it around Ian’s cock, easily moving up and down using Ian’s slick. Beneath him, Ian is vibrating with tension, his head thrown back on the white pillows and his mouth deliciously open, sinfully red and gleaming with saliva.

“Fuck, Anthony, ah,” Ian groans, voice gravel-rough.

His name coming out from Ian’s mouth like that feels like something holy.

(He wants to make him scream his name out like a proclamation.)

With a clever twist of the wrist just underneath the head of Ian’s cock, Anthony pushes Ian further up at the edge. Underneath him, Ian is a mess, his head turning back and forth as if he can’t quite decide where he wants to settle, or if he even _wants_ to settle, for that matter.

As revenge, perhaps, Ian removes his hand from Anthony’s nipple and reaches down to hold Anthony’s cock instead, his grip just _this_ side of too-tight, the way he knows Anthony likes it. Ian’s hand around him feels hot and heavy and not enough, and his own hand falters on Ian’s cock before resuming its up and down motion, eager to make Ian tumble to the edge before he does.

Anthony reaches down with his other hand and cups Ian’s balls in his hand lightly, enjoying the soft groans coming out of Ian’s mouth as Anthony feels the warm weight of his balls in his hand. He tries to ignore his own building pleasure, focusing instead on the way his thumb teases the tip of Ian’s cock with every upward stroke of his hand, but it gets harder and harder to focus the longer Ian keeps up with his steady strokes. It’s harder and harder to maintain his position as well, his abdomen tensed up as he braces himself over Ian using only one arm, and every time Ian pumps his hand around him, he feels himself quiver and lose just a little more control.

“Come on, Anthony,” Ian pants out, “let go for me.”

Anthony grits his teeth. “You first.”

He doesn’t know why it’s suddenly so important to him that Ian comes apart first. After all, it’s not like this is a competition he needs to win. There is no prize and there is no punishment. There’s only him and Ian and this, a memory that they can never talk about again, borne in secrecy and betrayal.

(So why the challenge?)

It’s control, he thinks. He needs to feel like he knows what’s going to happen, needs to feel like he’s not just stuck in a train wreck he can foresee but not avoid.

In the end, it’s him who comes first. Ian’s hand is perfectly rough around him, the pressure of his thumb swiping the pre-come across the head of his cock with every upstroke too intense for Anthony to bear. He comes with his head thrown back and a shaky groan rumbling through his throat, his hand slack on Ian’s cock, his nerve endings buzzing with what feels like electricity.

When the heat finally dissipates, Anthony opens his eyes and resumes stroking Ian up and down, his eyes never leaving Ian’s face. Ian letting go of himself has always been a kind of beauty Anthony can never hope to replicate, and he’s not missing his chance to see that now. Beneath him, Ian is a sweaty mess, his head tilted on his pillow and his mouth open in a constant stream of profanity. His hands are clenching and unclenching on the sheets.

He’s gorgeous.

Another twist of the wrist, and Ian is gone, flung over the edge. He comes with Anthony’s name on his lips, white streaking across his sweaty abdomen.

Anthony falls to Ian’s side, his chest still heaving as he tries to breathe as evenly as he can.

When his heart rate is back to normal, Anthony turns his head to find Ian looking at him intently, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle with missing pieces.

“What is it?” Anthony asks, his voice soft.

Ian shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

In response, Ian smiles at him, fond, and moves his hand. He entwines his fingers with Anthony, and Anthony feels his heart lurch in his chest.

“I’m sure,” he says, and Anthony believes him.

 

 

 

The feeling of soft sheets around him, the feeling of a warm body against his back, the feeling of a hand curled almost possessively around his stomach.

(home?)

Anthony sighs, content, and shifts, not quite leaving the embrace.

(depends.)

He opens his eyes slowly, eager to revel in the stillness of the moment, this pocket of relative peace they have somehow managed to save for themselves. Beside him, Ian sleeps soundly, his head bent toward Anthony, his breathing coming out slow and steady.

(Home is such a funny concept.)

Sleep-warm and truly relaxed for what feels like the first time in ages, Anthony feels no desire to leave the bed, much less leave Ian’s side. Instead, he shifts and turns on his side to curl an arm around Ian’s waist, smiling when he sees Ian burrow into him even closer.

Ian is affectionate in his sleep, and Anthony lets himself have this. He doesn’t see Ian like this enough, after all.

The white sheets are bunched around their lower backs. The cool air of the A/C is refreshing against his bare skin, but Ian doesn’t seem to agree, if the way he’s constantly shifting and curling up against him is any indication. Anthony watches as the sheet slips down, down, down, until Ian moves once more and the white sheet exposes a bony hip, milky white except for a spot where Anthony’s fingers left small bruises.

Ian shivers, and Anthony carefully raises his arm and grabs the white sheet, bringing it up to cover Ian’s chest. He’s careful not to wake Ian up, wanting to let him have his rest, but he seems to have failed, because when he puts his arm back around Ian’s waist, Ian’s eyes slowly open. Anthony watches as sleepy confusion gives way to alert understanding, watches as a yawn turns into a fond smile.

“Hey,” Ian whispers into the small space between them. “Good morning.”

It’s hard to describe in words just how peaceful this entire moment is. Anthony doesn’t even know where to begin, if he were asked to describe this. Then again, he has never been the writer between the two of them—that’s always been Ian.

If he were asked to paint a picture of this moment for others to experience, where would he start?

Would he start with the way the sunlight, though blocked by the heavy hotel curtains, casts a welcome glow in the room? The way the New York traffic seems distant this high up? The way everything feels like background noise compared to the intimate silence they have right here, in this bed?

Or would he start with what he can see in the hotel room? Would he start with their clothes, haphazardly arranged in various areas of the room? Or would he start with the way their belongings are mixed in their temporary home the way their lives are intertwined in a knot they can never hope to untangle?

What would Anthony pay attention to?

(Ian. It’s always Ian. It’s always going to be Ian.)

He would start with Ian, he thinks. He would start with the way Ian’s arm around his waist is a solid, comforting weight, the way Ian’s skin is soft against his, the way Ian’s smile is fond and indescribably happy. He would start with the way Ian is pressed close against him, comfortable and safe, his body free of tension and his face free of worry.

He would start with his eyes, vividly blue and open, trusting, he thinks, or maybe his smile, easy and content, a gentle curve upwards that conveys more than words can ever hope to convey.

He would start with the way he feels for him, the way a simple smile can get his heart racing, the way a simple touch can get his nerve endings sizzle with heat.

“Good morning,” Anthony replies, smiling when he feels Ian’s arm tighten around him.

Is this what Pam wakes up to every morning?

A stab of jealousy makes Anthony’s heart jump in his chest.

He’s not going to think of that. He doesn’t have the right to be jealous, after all. He gave up his claim on Ian when he didn’t meet him in Sacramento all those months ago.

Ian yawns, his eyes closing and his nose scrunching in a way that makes Anthony think, _adorable_.

“What do you want to do today?” Ian asks, shifting even closer. At this point, it’s frankly surprising that there’s any space left between them, what with the amount of times Ian has moved closer to Anthony and vice versa. “Our flight’s tomorrow morning. We should make today count.”

Anthony’s heart sinks as he thinks about their flight the next morning. He tries not to let it show on his face, however, because this is supposed to be a peaceful moment, not one that is filled with heartbreak and thoughts about whether or not they’ve covered up the events of these past few days well enough that they can go (home) to their girlfriends and convincingly lie.

Now is not the time for worrying. That’s for later. Now is the time to enjoy his last day (alone) with Ian for the foreseeable future.

(Or ever, he thinks. He sees the way Ian looks when he opens his phone and sees his wallpaper—a picture of him and Pam under an umbrella with his arm around her. The sight of it makes Ian’s face shut down with guilt and regret. The sight of it makes Anthony want to punch something.)

Anthony hums in agreement, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “What do you want to do? I’m down for anything.”

Ian smiles, closes his eyes in contentment. “I don’t know,” he says, settling under the covers, “but for now, I think I’d rather stay here.”

_I’d rather stay here, too,_ Anthony thinks, but doesn’t say.

(There’s no use in saying things that have already been heard.)

“That’s new,” Anthony says, smiling. “Usually, you’re the one who’s pulling me out of bed to get breakfast.”

Ian opens his eyes. “I never pull you out of bed and you know it.” He shakes his head as much as he can while still lying down. “You’re the weird one in the relationship who insists on running in the morning. If anything, _you_ pull _me_ out of bed.”

Trying to ignore the goosebumps forming on his skin when he hears Ian say “relationship”, Anthony moves forward and presses a kiss to the tip of Ian’s nose, chaste and simple. A kiss freely given without any expectation of something more. “Yeah, well,” he says, pulling back, “ _you_ pull _me_ into bed, so we should be even at this point.”

That smile again, sweet and fond. “You pull me out of bed more than I pull you into bed,” Ian protests half-heartedly. “That’s not equality.”

“Okay,” Anthony begins, voice soft, “so how are we going to solve this problem, then?” He moves his arm from where it is curled almost possessively around Ian’s waist so he can run his fingers down Ian’s bare back. “Do you have any suggestions? Maybe you should pull me out of bed for a change.”

A low chuckle erupts from Ian’s throat. “Or maybe you should pull me into bed instead,” he says, joking.

Anthony lets a grin slowly appear on his face. “Maybe,” he says, shrugging. He sees the pleased look on Ian’s face morph into something slightly more serious and a lot more knowing, and he allows himself to smirk even as he tries to say his next words in the driest tone possible. “I mean,” he says, only just barely managing not to laugh outright, “equality _is_ important, yeah?”

Another smile. This time, it’s knowing and not at all chaste, accompanied by devious eyes and hands that are starting to wander. “You’re right,” Ian concedes, nodding toward him even as he has his head on the pillow. He turns and Anthony turns with him, his arm around Anthony’s waist shifting so he can settle on top of Anthony and support himself with his hands on either side of Anthony’s head.

The sheet has slipped. Anthony shivers, feeing the cool hotel room air on his bare skin, but he doesn’t mind. He likes this.

Ian bends down to press a kiss to the side of Anthony’s neck. “We have time, right?” he whispers.

_I don’t know_ , Anthony thinks. _I’m starting to think that we don’t_.

“Yes,” he lies, breathy, his hands curling into fists and crumpling the bedsheets as Ian’s hot mouth comes in contact with sensitive skin. This close to their departure, Ian can’t leave marks. They both know this. He toys with the idea of letting him leave one anyway.

(What would Miel think when she sees the marks? Will she immediately assume the worst?)

Ian pulls away so he can press a kiss to Anthony’s lips, tongue delving in and curling against Anthony’s own tongue.

(Will she immediately assume it’s Ian who left the mark there?)

Gasping, Anthony barely notices it when Ian pulls away from the kiss and makes his way down, down, down, until he’s under the sheets and his head is only _just_ visible from under the white cotton. Anthony feels his hands, light and careful, as they caress Anthony’s inner thighs before pushing them outward, undoubtedly exposing his hot length to him.

Anthony feels Ian’s hot breath against the tip of his quickly hardening cock.

_Oh God_.

 

 

 

It’s nearly time for lunch when they (finally) manage to get themselves out of bed.

They make a point not to follow each other into the bathroom, knowing all too well that they will never get to leave the hotel room if they give in to temptation. Instead, Anthony goes and showers first, taking the time to scrub himself clean, before wrapping a soft white hotel-provided towel around his waist and exiting the bathroom to Ian’s approving gaze.

Sometimes, he imagines what it would be like to end things with Miel the way he ended things with Kalel.

(End relationships for Ian the way he would do anything else— _everything else_ —for Ian.)

It will be hard. Their fans will almost certainly be divided on the issue. It will be his second failed relationship in five years.

_But then,_ the traitorous part of his mind thinks, _think of the possibilities._

Getting out of the shower to find Ian’s gaze on him like that, happy and disbelieving that he gets to have this—have Anthony—every single day. Anthony thinks of early morning lie-ins and kisses shared in the privacy of their own bedroom, freely exchanged without having to think about the consequences or the lies and alibis they’re both going to have to make up for when they get back.

No more lies.

It could be so easy.

For a moment, Anthony is frozen where he stands. It’s a beautiful scene in his mind, but that’s all it is—a scene. A fantasy.

The thought slips away like a wisp of smoke and he lets it go without a fight.

Ian walks into the bathroom, smiling at him fondly, unaware of the thoughts running through his head. The door closes behind him.

Anthony lets out a shaky breath.

He needs to end this.

(It will hurt in a way no other break-up has ever hurt him before despite the fact that this, whatever the hell this is, is _not_ a relationship, no matter how much he wants it to be—)

When Ian gets out of the bathroom, Anthony’s dressed except for his jacket. He’s slowly folding and refolding his clothes, trying to figure out how to make them fit back into his suitcase.

“Packing already?” Ian asks, holding one small towel up to dry his hair.

Anthony hums under his breath in affirmation. “Might as well get started.” Anthony makes the mistake of looking up from the pair of jeans he’s trying in vain to fold properly to look at Ian, and for a few moments, he finds himself unable to speak. He feels his breath catch in his throat.

Ian’s bare chest is exposed to the chilly air of the hotel room. His nipples are hard from the cold, and Anthony watches as a stray drop of water makes its way down Ian’s neck and chest, until it reaches the edge of the white towel wrapped around Ian’s own waist.

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat and forces himself to tear his eyes away from Ian’s half-naked body and focus on the pair of jeans in his hands. “We both know I’m probably going to wake up ten minutes before we’re supposed to leave the hotel tomorrow, so.”

Ian laughs. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, walking to where his own suitcase is opened on the floor by the nightstand. “I should probably start packing too.”

“You have time,” Anthony says, resisting the urge to look up. He hears the distinctive sound of Ian’s towel hitting the floor, and he has to wet his suddenly dry mouth before he can speak again. “You actually get up when your alarm sounds, unlike me. Plus, we still have tonight.”

“True,” Ian says, sounding distracted. Anthony sneaks a look and finds him bent over his suitcase, presumably looking for a clean pair of jeans. His ass is clothed in a tight pair of black boxer-briefs, and Anthony can’t quite look away.

Anthony clears his throat. “Maybe we shouldn’t leave the room today,” he suggests, his gaze back on the pair of jeans he _still_ hasn’t folded properly. It’s starting to crease worse in between his hands, the dark fabric looking worn out despite only being worn once during the entire trip.

“Shouldn’t?” Ian asks, standing up straight.

Anthony meets his gaze. “Couldn’t,” he corrects. “Maybe we could just stay in.”

“We already stayed in this morning,” Ian says, shrugging into a short-sleeved polo and buttoning it up. “We should probably get used to being seen in public again.”

It is: a reminder.

(It is: as close to a rejection as Ian will ever give him.)

“Yeah, you’re right,” Anthony says, sighing as he gives up on the pair of jeans and folds it the improper way. He can’t quite manage to be calm, however, and he ends up jamming the pair of jeans into his already too-full suitcase, his anger and frustration just barely restrained by his willpower.

“Hey.”

Anthony looks up. His jaw is tightened and his entire body is tensed beyond belief.

“What’s wrong?” Ian asks, finally finishing buttoning up his shirt and moving to where Anthony is standing by the other side of the bed.

“This!” Anthony shouts, hand carelessly flying out to encompass everything in the room. “I hate this! I hate what we’ve become, Ian. I hate that we have to hide everything. I hate that whenever we’re somewhere else I’d rather stay in than actually go out and see the sights because we have no privacy. I hate that I can’t hold your hand in public, much less kiss you in public, without having someone proclaim to the rest of the world what we’re doing, never mind the fact that it’s okay.” At the end of it all, Anthony is gasping, struggling to take in air, and for a few moments, he takes his time breathing, uneager to have another panic attack. Eventually, Anthony takes in a deep breath and says what he’s been thinking for longer than he can remember. “I’m sorry. I just—I wish things were different.”

Beside him, Ian is waiting, as patient as always. He’s as steady as a rock even as he watches Anthony fall apart, silent as he waits for his turn to speak.

“I wish things were different too, Anthony,” Ian says, voice soft, “but Anthony, you chose this. Not me.”

_(You chose this. Not me.)_

Here is a list of things Anthony has chosen:

  * An invitation to a party in 2010
  * A phone number from a girl named Kalel
  * A chance to move away from Sacramento to live in LA
  * An engagement ring
  * Two tickets to Tokyo
  * A kind of commitment he wasn’t really sure he was ready for



And here’s another:

  * A break-up with a fiancée for the chance to live a life wholly different from what he had planned when he proposed
  * A conversation with a friend (lover) about the possibility of them being together, freely and without fear of being discovered, for the first time in what feels like forever
  * A meeting time and place as confirmation that they both want this
  * A deliberate ignorance of the time and date, resulting in him not going to Sacramento.



And yet another:

  * A relationship with another wonderful girl who makes him laugh almost as loud as his lover (friend) can
  * An agreement made in secrecy to meet each other in the dark during trips away from home
  * A kiss to seal the deal
  * An abundance of lies to cover up the sins
  * A trip away from home to promote an upcoming movie
  * Stolen glances and moments, like holding hands in a crowded elevator or kissing each other senseless in a hotel room they’re not supposed to be sharing in a random New York hotel



And there are too many things he’s chosen for himself, too many escape routes he’s made but never used, and isn’t there a saying about how hindsight is 20/20?

“You’re right,” Anthony finally says, defeated. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. That’s—that’s not your fault.”

( _It’s mine,_ he doesn’t say, because he knows Ian hears it though it is unspoken.)

Ian gives him a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sorry too.” Before Anthony can respond that Ian has nothing to be sorry for, Ian sits down on the bed, bouncing a little bit before finally stopping. “Do you realize that this is how it always ends?”

Anthony sits down. He’s not quite close enough to be touching Ian, but his hand, from where it is placed palm-down on the bedspread beside him, is mere inches away from Ian’s own hand. He wants to hold Ian’s hand in his, but at this point, he’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed, much less welcomed.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” Ian says, gesturing to the two of them with the hand that isn’t near Anthony. “The two of us. When the time is running out, it’s always like this. Tensions run high and we inevitably snap at each other.”

Anthony lets out a short, humorless laugh. “ _I_ snap at you and you take it, you mean.”

Ian shrugs. Anthony very carefully notes that he doesn’t quite disagree with him.

“I’m just saying,” Ian says, looking down. “Maybe this is why we didn’t work out. Why we _wouldn’t_ work out.”

Anthony’s eyebrows rise. Ian has never suggested ending this weird agreement they have before.

He ignores the sharp stab of pain in his chest.

( _Are you doing this for Pam?_ )

“You know what?” Anthony asks, his voice rising in pitch as he feels panic start to slowly but surely settle in the pit of his stomach, “you’re right. We should go outside today. We should be in publi—”

“—Anthony,” Ian interrupts, his voice soft but firm. “This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

And he’s not wrong. Anthony _had_ expected this to happen sooner or later. But not once did he ever think Ian would be the one to break it off, not once did he ever even _consider_ the possibility that Ian would ultimately be the one to change the rules—

And there it is again, a question in the back of his mind, something that cannot be ignored: why did he never think Ian would be the one to break it off?

He had trusted that Ian would remain the same, would be the patient lover and caring friend, letting Anthony call all the shots in the (selfish) way he had always done. Somewhere along the line, it had slipped from his head that Ian is human too, that there is bound to be a line somewhere that he himself has drawn, like a line in the sand created with the use of a twig, a demarcation between areas that neatly separate things into _acceptable_ and _unacceptable_.

Hysteria starting to bubble in his throat like poison, Anthony stands up from the bed, palms curling into fists. “What do you want me to say?” he spits out, barely able to see past the frustration clouding his head. “Of course I knew that this was bound to happen sooner or later. I just—” Anthony looks up at the ceiling, unwilling to let his tears of frustration succumb to gravity. “I guess I just didn’t expect it to happen now,” he finally lets out, his voice whisper-soft and broken.

He doesn’t notice Ian, too wrapped up in his thoughts as he is. It comes as a surprise, then, when he feels Ian’s arms around him, enveloping him in warmth in the middle of Ian’s hotel room. His own hands are stock-still at his sides, tension running through his veins.

Slowly, the tension seeps out of him, and he allows himself to lean into Ian’s embrace, his own arms wrapping around Ian’s waist. He places his head on Ian’s shoulder.

“Do you really think we will never work out?” Anthony chokes out, not entirely sure if he even wants to hear Ian’s answer. “If we were together, I don’t think we’ll run out of time the way we do now.”

Ian’s voice is soft as he speaks close to Anthony’s ear. “What does it matter?” He pauses, before continuing. “You won’t let that happen anyway.”

The saddest thing is: he’s right.

 

 

 

Lunch is a silent affair in a nearby Italian bistro with a large selection of vegan options on the menu.

Ian and Anthony are led by a petite waitress with dark brown skin and corkscrew curls down a narrow hallway to a booth near the back of the restaurant. It’s not quite as spacious as Anthony thought it would be, and beneath the table, his knees knock into Ian’s as they both take their seats on opposite sides of the table.

Smiling, the waitress leaves them be, assuring them that she will be back in just a few moments with a couple glasses of water and the menus.

Anthony finds that it is impossible to meet Ian’s eyes, much less talk to him. Here, they are basically guaranteed privacy—no one will be able to overhear their conversation over the loud din of the homey little bistro, provided they keep their voices soft—and yet Anthony finds that he wants anything _but_ that, wanting the public eye to be attuned to their every move so that Anthony won’t suddenly blurt out things he’s not in his place to say, like _are you doing this for Pam_ or _do you love Pam the way you love me_ or _I wish I chose you_.

“Hey.”

Anthony looks up. Ian is looking at him with worry in his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed as he takes in Anthony’s form.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Anthony asks, sitting up straight on the table and looking at Ian. Somehow he knows they’re about to have another one of _those_ talks, and it’s never a good idea to look down when they’re about to have an important conversation.

“That,” Ian says simply. “You don’t need to overthink everything, Anthony.”

Anthony shrugs. “It’s hard not to. You’re ending this.”

Before Ian can respond, the waitress—Naomi, her nametag says—comes back with two glasses of water, drops of condensation present on the glasses she holds in her hands. There’s one slice of lemon on the rim of each glass, precariously placed and bright compared to the color scheme of everything else.

“Here you go,” she says with a polite smile, handing Ian and Anthony the glasses of water. She removes two menus from under her arm, handing them off to Ian and Anthony. “Have you guys been here before?”

Anthony accepts the menu with a smile and looks at Ian. Ian is looking at the first inside page of the menu, and though Anthony himself hasn’t opened the menu, he knows Ian is looking at the appetizers.

_Have you guys been here before?_

(Ian’s 20th, when Anthony broke up with Ian, Anthony’s 27th when Anthony broke up with Kalel _for_ Ian, Ian’s 29 th when Ian broke up with Anthony for Pam—)

_Do you realize that this is how it always ends?_

“No,” Anthony finally chokes out, and he can see from the corner of his eyes that Ian is looking at him strange, but he doesn’t pay (too much) attention to that. Instead, he smiles at Naomi and says it again, “no, we haven’t been here before. What would you recommend?”

“I personally really like the stuffed mushrooms,” Naomi says, leaning over and pointing to the item on Anthony’s menu. “Our homemade bread is pretty fantastic too. Now, keep in mind, we do have vegan and gluten-free options for most items on the menu, so there’s that. So, what can I get for you?”

“Ah,” Anthony says, looking at the menu for a perfunctory glance before looking up and meeting Ian’s eyes. Truth be told, he doesn’t quite have the appetite to eat right now, but he’s not about to miss this just because he’s not hungry.

“Do you know what you want?” Ian asks, and it’s a question with the sort of ambiguity that Ian knows Anthony won’t miss.

Naomi, smiling and attentive, doesn’t know the second layer of the conversation only Ian and Anthony understand, doesn’t understand the double entendre in the question, and Anthony finds that he almost envies her for it.

_You_ , Anthony doesn’t say. Instead, he says, “we’ll have to take a minute to look at the options.”

Naomi grins at them. “Okay, you guys take your time. I’ll be right back.”

Anthony can tell from the corner of his eyes that Ian is looking at him with _that_ look again, the questioning one, the one that tells Anthony that Ian’s just as confused as him, if not more so.

“Listen,” Ian finally says, putting the menu away and placing his hands on the table, “we need to stop with the ambiguity, Anthony.”

“Do we?” Anthony asks, putting his own menu away. Though his voice is challenging, it is also soft, (too) aware as he is of the people around them. “You asked the question first, not me.”

He’s being petty.

(You don’t get to this point in your life without learning the art of being passive-aggressive.)

“Maybe you need to stop reading in between the lines,” Ian challenges.

Anthony snorts. “Maybe you need to stop thinking you know everything.”

“I never thought I did!” Ian whisper-shouts. “For fuck’s sake Anthony, don’t you notice that I let you make all the decisions? I never know what’s going on in your head. I know jack squat about what you have planned in there.”

This. This is why they fall apart.

(Constant. Perpetual. Unending. Like Groundhog Day, except instead of Bill Murray, there’s Ian and there’s Anthony and there’s whatever this is between them—)

Here it goes again.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says, heartfelt. “I’m sorry for fucking up. I’m sorry for trying to blame this on you. I—you’re right. I end up making the decisions most of the time, and to be completely honest, I think it’s because you’ve been letting me decide for so long that I’ve just gotten used to it.” Anthony pauses. “I also think I’ve been making all the decisions because it scares me to finally hear you say no.”

“Like now?” Ian asks.

“Like now,” Anthony confirms. “Sometimes, I want to tell you to just give me a few moments to think about this, about—yeah. And I can’t blame you, you know? I’ve been thinking all this time, and I still haven’t chosen anything. And I can’t be mad at you for finally deciding for both of us. That’s not fair.”

Ian inhales deeply. He lets his breath out, and it sounds final. “It isn’t,” he agrees.

“I want to ask you to give me some more time,” Anthony continues, because now that he’s saying all this, he doesn’t think he can stop, “but I know that no matter how much time I get, my answer will still be the same for the foreseeable future. And that’s not fair to you. I can’t begrudge you wanting something more than that.” Anthony bows his head, letting his gaze linger on his hands, restless on the table. “But Christ, Ian, it’s—it hurts. And I know I should understand, and yeah, maybe to some degree I do, but it’s still painful, and I just. I don’t know.” Anthony takes a deep breath, then takes his time to release it. “I guess I just wish it didn’t have to end this way.”

With a careful hand, Ian raises Anthony’s jaw to make him meet his eyes. “You were never going to choose me,” Ian says, soft.

“I already have,” Anthony says, truthful, and there he is again, saying words that won’t help him but will hurt Ian, because he’s never been good at this sort of thing the way Ian is, has never been good at walking the fine line between speech and silence.

“That’s not enough,” Ian says, taking his hand back and placing it on the table. “Choosing me isn’t enough. You were never going to do anything about it.”

He sounds so sure. Anthony hates that he sounds so sure, because he’s (absolutely) right.

Choosing is easy if you don’t have to do anything _but_ choose. Choice without commitment is meaningless.

(Choosing Ian, yet staying committed to Miel, choosing Miel, yet staying committed to Ian; where does one choice end and another begin?)

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says (again).

“You keep saying that,” Ian points out.

“That doesn’t make it any less true,” Anthony replies.

Ian sighs.

Naomi soon appears, her cheerful grin in place, and Anthony doesn’t even think about it, just goes and orders a random item from the menu. Ian orders the stuffed mushrooms for both of them and a lasagna for himself, and then Naomi is walking away from them once more.

“So that’s it, then?”

Ian shrugs. “That’s it.”

(This is how the world ends.)

Anthony takes a sip of his water.

(Not with a bang, but with a whimper.)

 

 

 

After lunch, Ian and Anthony walk to the nearest subway station.

They end up in Chinatown.

There’s too many people in a too little space. Everyone’s minding their own business, too busy trying to get to wherever they’re trying to go to actually apologize when their elbows hit someone else on the street. There’s all kinds of people as well: businessmen in suits and college students with pastel-colored backpacks and Asian street vendors trying to sell cheap-looking iPhone cases and selfie sticks.

For a few moments, Anthony revels in the anonymity.

Then he realizes: he doesn’t need that anymore.

He and Ian are done with that. For all intents and purposes, they’re just friends now.

_And the thing is,_ Anthony thinks as he absently avoids walking into a fire hydrant, _he can’t even mourn this like a proper break-up._

No one knew. No one even suspected. He can’t mourn something that never officially existed.

This isn’t the kind of last day Anthony wanted, but there’s nothing else to be done. Ian’s right. They both knew this had to stop. It wasn’t like there was any other choice.

Ian ends up buying eggrolls at a small, yet packed, store in between a Chinese herb shop and a small fruit stand. Somehow, they both find themselves walking further down the road, the crowd thinning out until there’s actually room to breathe.

“You know,” Anthony says as he watches Ian bite into an eggroll, “this is what we talked about the last time, too.”

Ian raises a hand to wipe the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “What?”

Anthony shrugs. “I don’t know. I think we both talked about needing space.” He smiles, wan. “And yet we ended up in this situation anyway.”

Ian looks at him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I don’t know.” Anthony puts his hands in his pockets. “Maybe things aren’t as final as they seem. We seem to end up in the same situations. Maybe this,” he says, gesturing to the two of them with one hand, “is never really off the table.”

“Maybe,” Ian says, “or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.”

“Maybe,” Anthony concedes. “Even then, somehow I don’t think I’m the only one hoping.”

Ian lets out a humorless laugh. “You don’t have to hope. You could always just make a decision and commit,” he points out.

This is the closest Ian has ever come to actually pushing Anthony for a decision.

(Anthony has to wonder: is the reason why Ian never asks him to decide because he’s afraid of what Anthony’s decision might be?)

“You’re right. But as you’ve pointed out, we both know I won’t do that,” Anthony says, shrugging.

Ian hums under his breath in acquiescence.

Here they are in New York with its dirty side streets and its faceless crowd, walking with a respectable amount of distance between them, talking about why they fell apart (and how, when, where, etc.), ~~standing in~~ _being the personification of_ the aftermath of a ruinous relationship.

They’ve been here before. They’ve gone through this time and time again. And though they’re supposed to know better, they never really do.

A few more steps, and then they decide to turn around and walk right back. Slowly but surely, the crowd starts to grow the nearer they get to the subway, various people going about their day.

“Didn’t you go here with Miel, once?” Ian asks, conversational. He finishes the eggroll and throws the wrapper onto a nearby pile of garbage.

Anthony shakes his head. “No,” he says after a moment. He supposes he should feel guilty for not thinking about Miel as much as he thinks he should as her boyfriend during this trip, but there are other, more important things to be guilty about. Like this, for example, or for the lies he’s about to tell her when he touches down at LAX.

Miel’s going to pick them up, is the thing. He’s going to have to hug and kiss her in front of Ian, going to have to lie to her while he can still feel the phantom pleasure-pain of the bruises Ian left on his body just a few days prior. He’s going to have to tell her he missed her and that he loves her, all the while knowing that Ian is watching and that Ian knows better.

And this—isn’t it supposed to alleviate the guilt?

Breaking up before anyone can find out about them—isn’t that the smart thing to do?

(But guilt isn’t a simple stain to be washed away with a break up and an apology, guilt isn’t a mistake erased by putting an end to a relationship the way a period ends a sentence, guilt isn’t forgotten and forgiven like petty crime—)

“Listen,” Ian says, looking at him, “I’m sorry. For ending it this way, I mean. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

It’s sincere.

Anthony doesn’t think he can take sincerity, at this point.

“No,” Anthony says, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t be. You were right. There was no other way to end it. And I hurt you more than you hurt me.”

Ian releases a shaky breath. “Maybe next time it will end better for us.”

Anthony’s eyebrows rise. “Are you saying there’s going to be a next time?”

Ian sighs. “Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know.”

But no, there isn’t going to be a next time, Anthony thinks, despite wanting it. There isn’t going to be a next time, because when all this is over, they’ll probably end up avoiding each other, because after this trip, they’re both going to be (more) attentive to their girlfriends, because there’s an engagement ring in a black velvet box in Anthony’s suitcase and it isn’t, as much as he wants it to be, for Ian.

(He knows himself better than to think he will ever know better, remember?)

Their ride on the subway is a silent one, and when they’re finally in front of Ian’s hotel room, they’re both somehow even quieter.

It feels a little like goodbye, and they’re not even away from each other yet.

 

 

 

“I think,” Ian says later, much later, when the sky outside Ian’s window is dark with only the glittering lights of New York City skyscrapers serving as a source of light and they’re both lying on Ian’s bed, on top of the sheets with the clothes they wore to Chinatown still on, “you should probably sleep in your own room tonight.”

Anthony doesn’t even try to fight it. “You’re right.” He looks at Ian, seated beside him with his head on Anthony’s shoulder. “Do you want me to go now?”

“No,” Ian says simply. He breathes in, deep, then exhales. “I want you to stay.”

Anthony inhales sharply. He places one hand on Ian’s head, fingers running through soft brown hair. “Do you know what you want?” he asks, because he didn’t get to before.

(Here they are, men on the cusp of being 30—)

Ian doesn’t reply. For a few moments, he breathes in and out, content to stay silent, and Anthony doesn’t press for an answer. Ian’s been patient all this time for him. He figures it’s time to offer him the same courtesy.

And anyway, this is peaceful. The calm after the storm. This is when they get to pick up the broken pieces of whatever they used to have in silence.

Anthony breathes in and out with Ian. Outside, New York moves on.

“I don’t think I do,” Ian finally says, his voice soft. It sounds like a confession he’s ashamed to be making. “I used to think I knew what I wanted, but I guess—I don’t know anymore. And that sucks, you know? Not knowing what you really want. I thought I would have gotten everything figured out by now.”

Ian has never been the type to talk about his feelings freely like this, but then again, Anthony has never been the type to cheat. He supposes there are exceptions to the rule for everyone.

“I don’t think you ever really figure it out,” Anthony says, tilting his head to lean against Ian’s on his shoulder.

Ian sighs. “This is why I’m a ‘go with the flow’ type of guy, I think.”

Anthony smiles. “Let life decide for you so you don’t have to?”

“Yeah.”

A few more moments pass in silence.

Anthony tries not to think about how by this time tomorrow, they’ll both be in their respective homes with their (respective) girlfriends. The day after that, they’re going to have to go back to their (old) dynamic of being (just) friends.

(Isn’t this what he signed up for?)

(No.)

This is where reality and fantasy blend, where Anthony gets to hoard memories before stepping into the real world once more, a world where Anthony can’t tell Ian just how much he loves him, or run his fingers through Ian’s hair just like this, or hold his hand in public, or kiss him in private.

_You can always try having this in LA,_ a traitorous part of his mind suggests, and he sucks in a sharp breath. They could, yes, but the risk is too high and the consequences are too severe. There, anyone can see.

_Please let me stay_ , he wants to ask, but no, that’s too dangerous. If he asks, he’s not sure if Ian will be able to say no. And right now, someone needs to say no for the both of them.

“I think,” Anthony begins, before pausing and clearing his throat. He tries again. “I think I’m going to propose to Miel.”

Beside him, Ian freezes. He is hesitant when he asks, “so soon?”

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat. “I—yeah. I think so.”

(He sounds unsure. Truth is, he’s never sure of anything anymore, these days.)

“Okay,” Ian says. He starts to fully sit up, removing his head from Anthony’s shoulder, and Anthony sits up himself. Anthony’s hand falls away from Ian’s hair, and he puts it on his lap

This is Ian’s way of putting distance between them.

(There’s a saying about how distance makes the heart grow fonder—)

“Okay,” Ian says again. He’s looking down, his gaze firmly settled on his lap where his fingers are restlessly tapping an impossible beat against his clothed thighs. When he notices Anthony watching him carefully, he stops, his fingers going still. He places his hands palm down on his lap and looks up, eyes unreadable as he looks at Anthony. “I think you should go.”

(And haven’t they had this discussion before? Leave, stay, go, don’t go—)

“Yeah, I should.”

(And just a few nights ago: “I should leave.” “Yeah, you should.”)

Slowly, Anthony gets up from the bed, even as every nerve ending in his body is screaming at him not to go, not to leave things like this between them.

“One last thing,” Anthony blurts out.

“What?” Ian asks, confused.

Anthony walks around the bed to Ian’s side and leans down, pressing a firm kiss to Ian’s mouth with lips that don’t quite want to leave.

The uncertainty fades away when Ian starts to kiss back, his hand rising to cup Anthony’s head, his lips moving against Anthony’s own. Anthony feels Ian’s tongue touch the seam of his lips, asking for permission, and he moans his answer, his tongue meeting Ian’s as they curl against each other.

The need for air finally makes Anthony back away, one hand coming up to let his fingers rest on his bottom lip, plump and red and kiss-sore.

This doesn’t feel like a goodbye kiss.

It feels like a see-you-again kiss.

(Maybe it is.)

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Anthony says, soft.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ian confirms.

 

 

 

In the end, this is how it goes:

Breakfast is a stilted, entirely too formal affair in the lobby of the hotel, both of them entirely too aware of the people around them. Anthony gets a bowl of Cheerios with almond milk. Ian makes himself a little waffle and smothers it in syrup.

They both check out of the hotel, handing the receptionist their respective room keys. Anthony has a belated thought about what the housekeepers might think when they see his room so clean and unlived in. He pushes the thought away quickly.

The ride to JFK is silent, Anthony careful not to sit too close to Ian in the back of an Uber. He pays for the ride when they get to the airport, thanks the Uber driver, then thanks Ian for grabbing his luggage from the back of the car before heading in, the automatic doors sliding open with a whoosh and a blast of comfortably warm air.

They wait for a little bit at the gate, both of them busy with their own phones. Anthony sneaks glances of Ian from the corner of his eyes. Ian doesn’t look up.

It takes a little time, but they make it to their own seats, with Anthony having the window seat. They place their luggage in the overhead bins and quietly sit down, settling in and buckling their seatbelts. Neither of them initiate conversation.

And later, much later, when the plane is speeding down the runway, preparing to take off, and everyone is silent as they listen to the head flight attendant telling them to stay in their seats with their seatbelts buckled:

“This was a nice trip,” Ian finally says. He places his hand on the middle armrest where Anthony’s hand is and takes Anthony’s hand in his, their fingers intertwining effortlessly like they’ve been doing it for years. “Thank you for this, Anthony.”

And there it is, that (too-loud) beating of his heart, that pain his chest that seems to radiate outward with every minute they’re closer to landing in LA.

Anthony squeezes Ian’s hand. “Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

“Welcome aboard,” the flight attendant says, “and thank you for choosing American Airlines. We hope you enjoy your flight.”

The plane begins to ascend. Outside, the city gradually becomes smaller and smaller until there’s nothing left to see but white clouds in a blue sky.

Ian pulls his hand away.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Smosh. I do not make money from this. I also don’t own Matthew Perryman Jones’ “Only You”.


End file.
